HE 

)F  LIGHT 


\ .  B . 


GIFT  OF 


THE  TREE   OF  LIGHT 


THE 

TREE  OF  LIGHT 


BY 
JAMES  A.  B.  SCHERER 


NEW  YORK 

THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYEIGHT,    1921, 

BY  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  COMPANY 


TO   MY   WIFE 


464604 


PREFACE 

The  first  national  hero  of  English- 
speaking  peoples  is  Caradoc,  son  of 
Shakspeare's  Cymbeline.  He  lived  five 
hundred  years  before  King  Arthur,  and 
his  story  is  just  as  romantic.  English  lit- 
erature is  rich  in  the  treatment  of  Arthur, 
while  the  only  literary  treatment  of  Car- 
adoc is  a  quaint  dramatic  poem  by  Wil- 
liam Mason.  Tradition  tells  us  that  Car- 
adoc met  Paul  while  in  Rome,  and  after- 
ward brought  us  our  Christmas.  He  is 
also  traditionally  associated,  albeit  in  con- 
flict, with  the  British  Druids  and  their 
practice  of  human  sacrifice.  The  present 
writer  became  interested  in  his  story 
through  reading  a  pamphlet  about  him  by 
Edward  Hicks,  published  at  Birmingham 
in  1906,  and  based  on  the  Roll  of  John 
Rous.  To  that  pamphlet  this  tale  is  espec- 
ially indebted,  as  well  as  to  the  Annals  of 
Tacitus  and — in  a  different  fashion — The 
9 


10  PREFACE 

Golden  Bough  of  Sir  J.G.  Frazer.  Very 
slight  is  our  actual  knowledge  of  Caradoc. 
We  do  know  that  he  was  simple,  brave, 
human.  "The  Tree  of  Light"  is  fiction, 
based  on  a  fairly  sound  tradition.  It  is  a 
greatly  amplified  version  of  the  short 
story,  "How  Christmas  Came  into  Eng- 
land," published  in  the  Christmas  number 
of  Scribner's  Magazine  for  1909,  and 
copyrighted  by  Charles  Scribner's  Sons. 
I  wish  to  thank  the  Messrs.  Scribner  for 
permission  to  use  in  this  volume  the  two 
drawings  they  had  made  by  Frank  Craig 
for  the  original  story.  For  the  name  of 
the  book  I  am  indebted  to  Mrs.  Julia 
Crawford  Ivers. 

JAMES  A.  B.  SCHERER. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

I  THE  ALTAR  UNDER  THE  OAK  .... 

II      CARADOC  IN  ROME 47 

III      NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 73 

IV  SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE    ....  99 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

"Keep  thou  to  thy  oaks  and  thy  mistletoe !"     .      40 
(From  a  drawing  by  Frank  Craig.) 

"A  white-haired  prisoner  from  Palestine"  .     .      57 
(From  a  painting  by  Rembrandt.) 

"He  told  them  the  story  of  the  manger"     .       .117 
(From  a  drawing  by  Frank  Craig.) 

The  first  Christmas  tree 123 

(From  a  photograph  by  Isabel  Mosher.) 


THE  ALTAR  UNDER  THE 
OAK 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

Many  great  men  have  come  out  of  old 
Warwickshire.  Shakspeare  is  the  most 
famous  of  these,  yet  one  perhaps  equally 
great  wrought  there  a  work  for  the  world 
fifteen  centuries  before  he  was  born. 
The  Stratford  poet  was  ever  a  delver  in 
old  buried  facts,  which  he  overlaid  with  in- 
numerable fancies,  and  you  may  find  in 
his  books  a  fanciful  story  of  Cymbeline, 
or  Cunobelin,  real  king  of  ancient  Britain, 
and  father  of  Caradoc.  Caradoc  is  a  hero 
of  Warwickshire,  although  Shakspeare 
seems  not  to  have  heard  of  him.  It  is 
ever  the  world's  loss  that  he  did  not,  for 
his  magic  fingers  would  have  woven  a 
marvelous  web  from  the  strange  tangled 
skein  that  has  fallen  to  my  clumsy  hands. 
Yet  here  it  lies,  on  this  clear  Christmas 
morning  in  Warwickshire,  and  though 
you  find  my  handiwork  labored,  you  may 
know  'tis  a  labor  of  love. 


THE  ALTAR  UNDER  THE   OAK 

King  Caradoc  came  out  with  his  war- 
men  and  his  troop  of  Druidical  priests  to 
rebuild  the  stronghold  of  Warwick  on  a 
beautiful  dawning  of  May.  Warwick  had 
been  founded  by  "the  radiant  Cymbeline" 
in  the  truly  radiant  year  when  Christ  was 
born,  only  to  be  ruined  by  Romans  in  the 
struggle  about  tribute-money,  described 
by  Shakspeare.  Cymbeline,  at  last  vic- 
torious, but  moved  by  some  strange  whim 
of  happiness  to  share  his  victory  with  the 
vanquished,  had  closed  his  warfare  with 
the  memorable  words : 

"Although  the  victor,  we  submit  to  Caesar, 
And  to  the  Roman  empire,  promising 
To  pay  our  wonted  tribute.   .  .  . 

Let 

A  Roman  and  a  British  ensign  wave 
Friendly    together.     So    through    Lud's    town 

march: 

And  in  the  temple  of  great  Jupiter 
Our  peace  we'll  ratify." 

Caradoc  had  not  been  nurtured  at  the 
[19] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

court  of  the  Csesars  after  the  fashion  of 
the  nobles  of  his  time.  His  nourishment 
had  been  that  of  freedom.  That  island 
"outside  the  world,"  as  the  Romans  called 
Britain— that  "Neptune's  Park,"  as 
Shakspeare  quaintly  names  it;  "ribbed 
and  paled  in  with  rocks  unscalable  and 
roaring  waters" — had  fed  in  Carodoc  the 
love  of  liberty  and  scorn  of  tyranny  and 
fealty  to  Fair  Play  which  is  Britain's  chief 
title  to  glory. 

The  Crown  Prince  Adminius,  his  older 
brother,  had  on  the  other  hand  gone  for 
his  schooling  to  Rome.  Just  before  Cym- 
beline  died,  Adminius  returned  from  the 
Imperial  City  so  much  a  Roman  prince- 
ling and 'so  little  a  British  prince  that  the 
aged  sovereign  summoned  his  last  strength 
to  a  deed  of  great  wisdom  and  daring. 
In  the  presence  of  all  the  people  he  pro- 
nounced on  Adminius  the  stern  sentence, 
"A  son  of  Rome  is  no  son  of  mine,"  and 
with  his  own  trembling  hand  set  the  crown 
of  succession  on  Caradoc.  The  people 
gave  tremendous  acclamation,  while  Ad- 
minius, "suckling  of  the  Roman  wolf," 
[20] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


stole  back  to  his  dam.  As  he  went,  he 
swore  oaths  of  revenge.  That  was  a 
twelvemonth  ago. 

No  foreboding  clouded  the  brightness 
of  the  young  King's  countenance  as  he 
came  out  through  the  forest  to  the  rebuild- 
ing of  Warwick  on  this  beautiful  dawning 
of  May.  That  "perfect  beauty  and  great 
strength"  which  early  Britain  demanded 
of  her  kings  met  in  regal  consummation  in 
him.  His  lithe,  erect  figure,  ruddy- 
crowned,  was  set  off  by  true  kingly  trap- 
pings, revealing  shrewd  artifice  among 
his  jewelers,  hosiers,  and  needlewomen. 
One  who  has  ransacked  the  records  of  the 
musty  age  in  which  Caradoc  lived  de- 
scribes him  as  wearing  a  furred  mantle  of 
sables  oved  his  tunic  of  blue,  which  reached 
to  his  shapely  knees.  Tight  hosen  were 
bound  with  golden  cross-garterings  from 
the  middle  of  the  calf  to  the  ankle,  where 
they  were  met  by  black-pointed  skin  shoes. 
Around  his  neck  swung  a  massive  gold 
torque.  At  his  side  hung  a  long  shining 
sword,  TrifingUiS,  alive  with  iridescent 
enamel.  His  ruddy  locks  were  capped  by 
[21] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

a  headgear  of  gay  striped  cloth,  mainly 
scarlet.  To  the  peak  clung  the  golden 
dragon  of  Britain — "the  dragon  of  the 
Great  Pendragonship."  His  eyes  were 
blue  and  keen  and  fearless;  his  features 
clear  cut,  and  his  face  clean  shaven  except 
for  an  auburn  mustache  growing  well 
down  on  either  side  of  a  mouth  at  once 
gentle  and  firm,  and  betraying  also  that 
lurking  sense  of  humour  which  is  the  un- 
failing accompaniment  of  both  sympathy 
and  hard  common  sense. 

Caradoc,  leading  his  ceremonious  pro- 
cession through  tLe  starlit  aisles  of  the  for- 
est, was  followed  close  by  an  escort  of 
tangle-haired  war-men,  whose  long  and 
brightly  checkered  woollen  cloaks — the 
primitive  Highland  plaids — were  fastened 
with  brooches  of  boar's  tusks.  Each  man 
carried  spear  and  battered  shield,  and 
all  wore  mantles  of  wolf-skin.  Here  and 
there  a  head-piece  of  horns  or  a  mitered 
helmet  of  leather  marked  out  an  officer. 
Their  bodies  and  souls  were  their  King's. 

Behind  the  warriors  trooped  the  stately 
Druids,  or  Oak-Men:  clad  in  clinging 
[22] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


robes  of  solid  scarlet,  with  massy  rough 
bands  of  hammered  gold  on  wrist  and 
ankle,  and  a  long  rough  wooden  staff  in 
each  right  hand.  Caradoc,  scorning  the 
temples  of  Rome,  fostered  this  hoary  cult 
of  Druidism  not  because  it  attracted  his 
devotion,  but  because  it  was  rooted  in  the 
soil,  and  might  be  utilized  for  patriotic 
ends. 

The  somber  disciples  of  Taranis  and 
Camulus  came  chanting  their  Hymn  to 
the  Dawn  in  low  monotonous  wailings  as 
the  King  led  on  the  advance  through  and 
out  of  the  forest  to  the  summit  of  a  gorse- 
sprinkled  hill,  beside  the  "soft-flowing 
Avon" — and,  there  suddenly  pausing, 
struck  his  gigantic  wolf -spear  into  the 
soil  he  had  chosen  for  replanting  the  cor- 
ner-stone of  Warwick. 

It  was  beneath  the  spreading  branches 
of  an  oak  that  had  been  struck  by  light- 
ning, and  the  Druids  raised  a  shout  of 
raptured  joy.  With  them  the  high  oak 
was  held  sacred  as  the  stern  and  lonely 
monarch  of  the  trees,  speaking  the  voice 
of  their  gods. 

[23] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

Instantly  the  Arch  Druid,  old  Dalian, 
rushed  forward,  peering  upward  through 
the  pale  green  boughs,  while  his  fellows 
pressed  about  him  in  silence,  and  the  chief- 
tains encircled  the  tree. 

"Now  all  the  tree-tops  lay  asleep 

Like  green  waves  on  the  sea, 
As  still  as  in  the  silent  deep 
The  ocean-woods  may  be." 

But  suddenly,  without  any  warning,  and 
as  though  he  never  had  risen  before,  the 
sun  shot  up  above  the  vast  unbroken  for- 
ests to  eastward,  and  kissed  the  budding 
oak  upon  the  hill-top,  so  that  there  ran 
"a  little  noiseless  noise  among  the  leaves" 
as  they  trembled  at  the  touch  of  his  rays. 

On  the  instant  the  eager-eyed  Arch 
Druid,  thrusting  both  clenched  hands  up- 
ward in  highly  wrought  religious  excite- 
ment, uttered  a  tense  prolonged  shriek  — 

"Qo-yeel    The   Mistletoe,   All-Heal!* 


As  the  sunrise  lit  up  the  great  tree,  the 
searching  eyes  of  Dalian  the  Arch  Druid 

*The    Druid    word    for    mistletoe    meant    "All-Heal." 

[24] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


had  discerned  a  branch  of  the  mystical 
mistletoe  growing  close  in  against  its  huge 
trunk ;  little  witting  that  the  shrewd  King 
had  found  it  before  him,  and  had  carefully 
chosen  his  hour.  To  such  fanatical  relig- 
ionists this  union  of  omens  seemed  so  pro- 
pitious that  there  was  not  a  man  of  them 
but  shivered  to  his  marrow  with  the  rap- 
ture of  superstitious  awe — the  stricken 
oak,  the  dawn,  the  mistletoe  in  the  sixth 
day  of  the  moon,  the  King  and  his  corner- 
stone!— and  the  cry  that  shrilled  from 
their  throats  as  they  stood  with  uplifted 
clenched  hands  behind  Dalian  frightened 
many  a  squirrel  from  his  feast  of  tender 
twigs  among  the  tree- tops. 

When  the  cry  had  died  down  from  want 
of  breath,  but  before  its  echoes  faded  in 
the  forest,  the  hook-nosed  snow-bearded 
Dalian,  beating  himself  twice  upon  the 
breast,  raised  his  hands  once  more  toward 
heaven  and  then  shouted: 

"Know  ye,  O  people  of  Britain,  that 

heaven  smiles  on  you  this  day!     The  oak 

is  the  strong  unswerving  god.     The  gods 

love  sacrifice,  and  have  stricken  this  tree 

[25] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

in  his  heart;  but  the  lightning  is  the 
touch  of  the  gods,  and  the  sacred  mistle- 
toe their  thunder-besom.  Sunrise  is  heav- 
en's smile.  It  is  the  sacred  sixth  day  of 
the  moon.  Here  see  ye  the  holy  tokens, 
fixed  in  perfect  unison  at  the  moment  of 
mighty  adventure.  By  the  sacred  An- 
guineum  which  I  bear  upon  my  breast" — 
he  wrenched  it  from  its  twisted  chain  of 
gold  and  held  it  aloft — "I  declare  that  the 
favor  of  our  gods  is  with  King  Caradoc, 
and  that  Caradoc  shall  mightily  prevail!" 

All  the  Druids  chanted  a  loud  and  fer- 
vent "Amen,"  and  the  war-men  clashed 
spear  against  shield ;  while  Caradoc  stood, 
proudly  smiling,  beneath  the  beneficent 
tree. 

Dalian  himself  was  an  impressive  figure, 
tall  and  tense,  the  sun  striking  fire  from 
the  curiously  fashioned  gold  disc  that 
formed  his  headgear,  as  well  as  from  his 
golden  shoulder-plates.  He  alone  of  all 
the  Druids  was  clothed  in  white.  He  re- 
sumed his  interrupted  oration: 

"Wherefore  I  call  on  you,  O  Druids, 
while  the  King  with  his  chieftains  marks 
[26] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


out  the  bounds  of  New  Warwick,  to  get 
you  to  your  duties,  which  ye  know  so  well, 
and  build  here,  where  the  King's  spear 
stands,  an  altar  for  fit  sacrifice  on  this 
Golden  Day  of  the  Dawn." 

He  lowered  his  gaunt  arms,  in  token 
that  his  speech  was  now  ended.  Three 
priests  pressed  toward  him  for  orders. 
These  directions  he  whispered  in  their 
ears ;  then  held  against  each  heart,  in  turn, 
that  mystical  charm  of  the  Serpents'-Egg, 
or  Anguineum,  which  ancient  chroniclers 
describe  as  of  "about  the  size  of  a  moder- 
ately large  round  apple,  having  a  carti- 
laginous rind  studded  with  cavities  like 
those  on  the  arms  of  a  polypus."  Accord- 
ing to  tradition  it  was  aways  produced 
from  the  saliva  and  frothy  sweat  of  innu- 
merable serpents  writhing  in  an  entangled 
mass  in  the  moonlight,  the  egg  being 
tossed  up,  as  soon  as  formed,  by  their  hiss- 
ing. The  divinely  favored  Druid  who 
contrived,  as  it  fell,  to  catch  the  egg-of- 
serpents  in  his  sagum,  or  white  linen 
apron,  rode  off  at  full  speed  upon  horse- 
back, pursued  by  the  serpents  until  they 
[27] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

were  checked  by  the  passage  of  some  clear 
running  stream. 

When  Dalian  had  pressed  the  Anguin- 
eum  against  the  breasts  of  the  three  priests 
in  turn,  they  disappeared  quickly  in  the 
forest :  one,  with  a  livid  scar  upon  his  face, 
which  reached  from  temple  to  nostril,  go- 
ing in  the  direction  of  the  village  of  wat- 
tled huts  whence  the  procession  had  come, 
and  the  others  toward  a  neighboring  cat- 
tle-pit. 

Meanwhile  the  remaining  Druids,  about 
two  score  in  number,  were  hurrying  to  and 
fro  in  search  of  large  stones,  which  they 
built  in  a  surprisingly  short  time  into  a 
rough  unplastered  altar,  between  the  oak 
and  the  sun. 

This  done,  Dalian  beckoned  to  the  chief 
of  the  saronidse,  bardic  instructors  of 
youth.  The  winner  of  the  circlet  of  gold 
in  the  last  annual  Tournament  of  Song 
stepped  out  and  faced  toward  the  sun,  up- 
lifting the  British  banner  of  scarlet  in  the 
same  hand  that  held  his  rude  harp,  and 
chanted : 

"O  Thou  strong  King  of  Day, 
L<prd  of  Light, 
[28] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


Who  chasest  away 

The  dark  night, 
Thou  hast  smiled  on  the  oak, 
Thou  hast  bless'd  Caradoc, 
And    we    praise    Thee    with    all    of    our 
might ! 

"O  Wheel  of  the  world, 

Turning  Wheel, 
On  our  banner  unfurl'd 

Set  Thy  seal ! 
Give  us  true  hearts  of  oak 
For  our  liege  Caradoc, 
In  the  name  of  the  sacred  All-Heal!" 

Gruff  shouts  of  applause  burst  from  the 
throats  of  the  war-men  as  the  chief  bard 
brought  his  impromptu  chant  to  its  close ; 
and  the  poet  had  no  sooner  returned  to  his 
place  in  the  now  silent  and  expectant  band 
of  Druids  than  the  two  priests  who  had 
gone  to  the  cattle-pit  were  seen  advancing 
from  the  rim  of  forest,  leading  two  large 
white  bulls. 

Caradoc  and  his  war-men  moved  out 
from  under  the  tree  to  make  way  for  the 
savage  rites  that  followed.  The  bulls 
were  fastened  by  their  horns  to  the  trunk 
of  the  oak.  Dalian  was  then  lifted  o»  the 
[29] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

shoulders  of  the  two  assisting  priests  un- 
til he  could  clamber  to  a  seat  among  the 
lowermost  boughs.  A  golden  sickle  was 
handed  up  to  him.  With  this,  standing 
upright  among  the  branches  of  the  tree, 
he  cropped  the  mistletoe,  amid  the  pious 
chanting  of  the  prests — catching  the  pre- 
cious parasite  in  his  snow-white  sagum  as 
it  fell. 

He  then  descended,  with  the  aid  of  the 
two  tall  Druids,  and  placed  the  mistletoe 
upon  the  altar. 

Returning  to  the  tree,  amid  the  perfect 
silence  of  the  people  he  raised  the  knife 
of  gold  above  his  head,  and,  with  two  deft 
practiced  strokes  of  his  sinewy  arm,  sev- 
ered the  jugular  veins  of  the  bulls. 

Their  hot  blood  spouted  gurgling  on  the 
tree-trunk ;  the  Druids  chanting  a  doleful 
"Amen"  to  this  further  good  omen,  the 
laving  of  the  oak  with  warm  blood.  Both 
bulls  fell  without  breaking  their  bands, 
one  sharp  horn  piercing  the  tree  until  the 
sap  oozed.  There  was  a  short  convulsive 
struggle,  and  they  were  still. 

The  Druids  uttered  grunts  of  relief  over 
[30] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


the  fortunate  killing.  After  Dalian  had 
placed  the  sacrificial  parts  upon  the  altar, 
his  followers  pushed  in  for  their  edible 
share  in  the  feast. 

Caradoc  and  his  war-men,  knowing  that 
the  votive  flame  would  not  be  lit  on  the 
corner-stone  altar  until  the  sun  had  quite 
touched  his  zenith — when  the  elaborate 
ceremony  of  dedication  would  take  place 
—now  set  out  on  their  journey  to  mark 
bounds  for  the  walls  of  the  town. 

This  engaged  them  for  the  space  of 
several  hours.  Meanwhile  the  Druids 
built  a  fire,  and  presently  partook  of  their 
barbecued  beef  "rather  after  the  fashion 
of  lions,"  although  assisted  by  little  bronze 
knives;  gnawing  the  joints  to  the  bone, 
and  then  tossing  the  denuded  bones  upon 
the  embers. 

Their  feast  ended,  they  stretched  them- 
selves around  the  barbecue  fire  to  enjoy 
the  sleepy  pleasure  of  repletion,  awaiting 
the  hour  of  high  noon.  Their  repose  was 
soon  interrupted  by  the  return  of  the 
young  scar-faced  priest,  bearing  in  his 
arms  a  crying  child,  whose  piteous  mother 
[31] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

dogged  at  Goran's  heels.  Youthful  enough 
she  appeared,  despite  her  somber  gown  of 
hodden-gray,  tied  about  the  waist  with 
thongs  of  straw — her  hair  covering  her 
face  like  a  veil,  and  half  stifling  her  piti- 
ful sobs. 

The  Druids  gave  scant  heed  to  the  girl- 
ish mother,  but  every  man  of  them  sat  in- 
stantly attentive  to  the  highest  of  all  the 
Druid  rites.  Only  on  unusual  occasions- 
did  the  Oak-Men  practice  human  sacrifice, 
but  Dalian  had  decided  that  the  extraor- 
dinary events  of  the  morning  demanded 
high  mass  to  Taranis.  He  was  all  the 
more  willing  to  make  it  since  Myfanwy's 
beautiful  boy  had  been  used  as  occasion 
for  scandal.  Her  husband  having  been 
slain  in  battle,  her  honor  was  thus  left  de- 
fenseless against  the  slanders  of  Goran  the 
scar-faced. 

Why  should  not  this  man-child  be  built 
as  a  stone  of  offense  into  the  altar  of  the 
corner-stone,  a  sacrifice  acceptable  to  the 
gods  on  two  counts  ?  Thus  reasoned  Dal- 
ian. 

So  the  archpriest  arose  with  great  dig- 
[32] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


nity,  and  directed  that  due  preparations 
should  begin,  after  having  craftily  ob- 
served the  disappearance  of  the  King  with 
his  warriors  far  in  the  distance. 

The  two-year-old  boy  had  been  quieted 
by  a  big  saffron  pone  which  Myfanwy 
drew  from  her  bosom  and  thrust  into  his 
outstretched  hands.  The  girl-mother 
seemed  utterly  cowed  as  she  crouched  on 
the  ground  near  the  altar,  transfixed  with 
horror  at  what  she  saw  through  the  veil 
of  her  tangled  hair. 

Goran  placed  the  child  inside  his  tomb. 
Dalian  stood  directing  the  mason,  busily 
mixing  his  mortar. 

When  everything  was  finally  ready,  the 
mason  scooped  a  slimy  mass  into  his  hands 
and  began  to  smear  it  skilfully  among  the 
chinks  with  strokes  of  his  bony  forefinger. 
Little  Dunwallo  sat  quietly  within, 
munching  his  saffron  cake  in  growing 
darkness. 

Suddenly  Myfanwy  thrust  forward  on 

her  knees,  and,  peering  hungrily  through 

a  crevice  of  the  altar,  exclaimed  in  tones 

that    were    vibrant    with    the    pain    of 

[33] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

wounded  love,  and  that  framed  themselves 
into  the  blind  unconscious  poetry  of  Celtic 
passion: 

"I  see  his  face,  there  gleaming  like  a 
rose!" 

The  mason's  hands  were  busy  at  their 
task,  shutting  out  the  light  from  the  altar. 
The  smack  of  mortar  against  the  stones 
made  deeper  darkness  about  the  unsus- 
pecting child. — 

"I  see  his  eyes,  shining  like  twin  stars!" 

A  rough  hand  seized  Myfanwy  by  the 
shoulder,  but  she  wrenched  herself  free 
and  pressed  her  wet  face  against  another 
part  of  the  unfinished  oven,  while  the  ma- 
son's finger  closed  up  the  cranny  that  had 
just  served  as  a  window  of  love. — 

"I  see  his  hair,  gleaming  like  the  dawn!" 

As  they  tore  the  girl-mother  away  and 
shut  up  the  last  poor  channel  of  vision,  she 
thrust  her  knotted  hands  above  her  head 
and,  falling  backward  prone  upon  the 
ground,  shrieked  in  heart-rending  agony: 

"I  see  nothing,  nothing,  nothing!  Oh 
my  child]" 

Coran  spurned  the  prostrate  girl  with 
[34] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


his  foot,  and  harshly  bade  her  be  silent. 
Not  knowing  what  she  did,  she  seized  him 
by  the  ankles,  and  began  gnawing  at  his 
bones  as  if  a  dog.  When  they  tore  her 
free  the  shins  of  the  slanderous  priest 
were  bleeding,  and  while  they  held  her 
there,  recumbent,  she  fixed  her  crazed 
glassy  eyes  upon  him  and  poured  out  a 
torrent  of  curses. 

"Thou  dog  of  a  Druid!"  screamed 
Myfanwy.  "Would  thou  wert  with  the 
dead  fetid  marsh-hag  that  bore  thee! 
May  scurvy  rot  thy  bones  and  darkest 
demons  snatch  thy  scowling  soul!  Thou 
it  was  that  didst  enter  my  hut  with  thy 
leer  and  thy  lolling  tongue!  Hand  of 
my  husband  it  was  that  did  brand  thee 
across  thy  foul  face,  when  he  came  in  at 
eve  from  the  hunt  to  find  a  wild  beast  in 
his  home!  Him  didst  thou  betray  in  the 
battle !  Me  hast  thou  robbed  of  mine  hon- 
our with  the  ulcerous  sting  of  thy  slander! 
And  now  thou  hast  taken  my  child!" 

Her  voice  was  stifled  with  the  folds  of 
her  own  coarse  gown  as  they  finally 
crushed  her  struggles  and  dragged  her 
[35] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

back  to  the  village.  Coran,  pointing  rue- 
fully down  at  his  ankles,  suggested  that 
Myfanwy,  too,  should  be  immolated;  but 
Dalian,  who  remained  unruffled  through- 
out this  melee,  waved  the  suggestion  away 
with  stately  gesture  and  the  curt  pro- 
nouncement that  so  high  a  dedication 
must  not  be  profaned  or  cheapened  by 
the  unholy  blood  of  a  female. 

The  sacred  oven  having  now  been  com- 
pleted, quantities  of  punk  and  dry  wood 
from  the  hill-side  were  heaped  about  the 
entrails  on  top  of  the  altar,  as  well  as  on 
the  ground  at  its  base;  and,  as  the  sun 
drew  almost  directly  overhead,  while 
Caradoc  with  his  escort  of  warriors  could 
be  seen  coming  in  from  their  circuit,  the 
three  assisting  priests  snatched  brands 
from  the  barbecue  fire,  and  awaited  the 
word  of  command. 

Old  Dalian,  his  arms  folded  and  his 
bushy  gray  brows  gathered  in  a  dignified 
frown,  stood  under  the  oak  facing  the 
altar,  his  Druids  assembled  around  him 
ready  to  chant  with  their  bards  the  solemn 
incantation  to  Taranis  and  Camulus  when 
[36] 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


the  flames  should  mount  toward  the  sky. 
The  men  who  had  dragged  Myfanwy 
back  to  her  empty  hut  in  the  village  came 
running,  quite  out  of  breath,  in  time  to 
join  themselves  to  the  Druidical  company 
— followed  to  the  edge  of  the  forest  by  a 
motley  crowd  of  villagers,  who  stood  peer- 
ing timidly  and  in  open-mouthed  wonder 
at  the  mystic  ceremonial  on  the  hill-top. 

Caradoc,  with  an  ill-suppressed  yawn, 
leaned  on  his  spear  among  the  war-men, 
facing  the  Arch  Druid  and  the  altar. 
Dalian  cut  his  keen  eye  toward  the  sun, 
then  lifted  his  hand  as  a  signal  for  the 
chant  to  commence. 

It  droned  like  the  low  drowsy  murmur 
of  bees  as  the  Druids  caught  up  the  weird 
strain: 

"O  Taranis,  oak-hearted  Deity, 
Taranis,  blood-loving  Lord!" — 

swelling  to  articulate  sound  as  the  priests 
rushed  in  with  flaming  torches  and  thrust 
them  among  the  fagots. 

Dry  twigs  crackled  as  the  fire  caught 
them.     The  chant   dropped  again  to   a 
[37] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

drone,  before  the  wild  hurricane  of  sound 
that  should  ascend  with  the  uplifting 
flames. 

A  tiny  ember  sifted  in  through  the  lid 
of  the  oven  and  fell  upon  the  baby's  naked 
shoulder  just  as  his  drowsy  eyes  were 
yielding  to  the  spell  of  close  darkness  and 
the  feast  of  the  great  yellow  pone.  So  it 
was  that  the  shrill  cry  of  a  child  pierced 
the  low  monotone  of  the  bards  precisely  as 
the  flames  roared  heavenward  and  the 
chant  soared  into  a  scream. 

The  quick  ear  of  Caradoc  detected  this 
shrill  note  of  keen  childish  agony,  cutting 
the  air  like  a  knife.  Unbidden,  there 
flashed  through  his  brain  a  swift  vision  of 
his  own  darling  child,  the  Princess  Imo- 
gen, safe  with  Queen  Eigen  at  Colchester. 
His  eye  swept  the  freshly  plastered  oven 
of  human  sacrifice.  It  was  clear  that  his 
well  known  horror  of  Druidic  high  mass 
had  almost  been  baffled — on  this  day  of  all 
days — by  Dalian's  crafty  fanaticism. 
Like  a  catapult  he  flung  himself  toward 
the  altar,  his  sabled  robe  and  scarlet  cap 
slipping  from  him ;  and  lay  fiercely  about 
[38] 


"Keep  thou  to  thy  oaks  and  thy  mistletoe." 

From  a  drawing  by  Frank  Craig 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


him  with  his  Homeric  wolf-spear,  shower- 
ing the  sparks  and  glowing  coals  in  such 
fashion  that  the  dumfounded  Druids 
shrank  back  under  the  oak. 

In  a  twinkling  he  had  overtopplea  the 
altar,  with  its  burden  of  scorched  odorous 
sacrifice.  In  a  moment  he  had  seized  the 
small  Dunwallo  and  lifted  him  high  in  his 
arms. 

Turning  then  with  blazing  eyes  toward 
old  Dalian,  he  read  that  hook-nosed  fa- 
natic a  lesson  in  royal  rebuke  such  as  made 
him  blench  before  the  face  of  his  Druids, 
the  war-men  looking  stolidly  on. 

"Thou  treacherous  priest!"  shouted 
Caradoc,  his  right  hand  burning  with 
pain,— 

"Keep  thou  to  thy  oaks  and  thy  mistle- 
toe, but  know  that  human  sacrifice  shall 
never  stain  the  stones  of  New  Warwick, 
nor  imbrue  the  fame  of  my  reign!  On 
peril  of  thy  life  shalt  thou  venture  ever  to 
attempt  the  like  again!  I  swear  it  by  the 
Great  Pendragonship !" 

Dalian  had  recovered  his  composure. 
There  was  real  majesty  in  the  old  fanatic's 
[41] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

bearing  as  he  spoke  for  his  outraged  gods : 
"And  know  thou,  O  Caradoc,  that  the 
gods  will  be  avenged  this  very  day!  I 
swear  it  by  the  sacred  Egg-of -the- Ser- 
pents!" 

The  King  was  walking  indifferently 
over  toward  his  war^men,  all  his  youthful 
grace  and  supple  strength  disclosed  with 
the  loss  of  his  trappings.  The  half -naked 
and  quite  dirty  Dunwallo  nuzzled  his 
sunny  head  upon  his  shoulder  and  gurgled 
with  laughter.  The  King  smiled  and 
kissed  his  chubby  cheek.  As  if  in  answer 
to  the  Arch  Druid's  imprecation,  a  horse- 
man crashed  through  the  underbrush  and 
flung  himself  to  his  knees  before  the  King: 
"The  Romans  are  upon  us,  O  my  Mas- 
ter! They  have  crossed  the  Street-ford 
of  the  Avon !  Adminius,  thy  brother,  leads 
the  way!" 

That  "doomsday,"  as  it  afterward 

came  to  be  called,  closed  the  chapter  of 
Caradoc's  reign.  "The  Battle  of  Car- 
adoc's  Oak"  was  not  a  battle  at  all,  but 
a  shambles.  Dalian,  maddened  that  the 
grim  wolves  of  Rome  should  appear  as  the 


ALTAR  AND  OAK 


agents  of  his  curse,  fought  like  an  aged 
sheep  at  bay.  He  fell  among  the  stones 
of  his  altar,  brandishing  his  sickle  of  gold. 
Scar-faced  Goran  wrenched  it  from  his 
grasp,  and  with  it  killed  the  traitorous  Ad- 
minius.  The  leader  of  the  bards  was 
struck  down,  wielding  his  harp  as  a 
weapon.  Coran  managed  to  make  his  es- 
cape, together  with  a  group  of  fellow 
Druids.  The  larger  group  lay  huddled 
near  the  oak.  Caradoc,  with  but  a  tithe  of 
his  war-men  surviving,  fled  eastward  to- 
ward Colchester,  then  known  as  Camulo- 
dunum,  the  capital.  Toward  sunset  the 
Romans  pitched  their  camp  on  the  hillside, 
and  beside  the  soft  river  near  by.  As  dusk 
fell,  the  commander  Lucius,  having  bathed 
away  the  stains  of  battle  in  the  Avon, 
strolled  toward  Caradoc's  Oak.  His  at- 
tention had  been  attracted  by  sounds  as 
of  rude  notes  of  music.  He  stumbled 
amid  the  overturned  stones  of  the  altar, 
and  made  out  the  prostrate  figure 
of  a  blue-clad  bard,  whose  dead  hand 
clenched  a  broken  harp.  And  beside  him 
the  living  figure  of  a  child !  Dunwallo  the 
[43] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

irrepressible,  sunburnt  and  swarthy  and 
covered  with  soot,  had  reappeared  among 
the  stones  of  sacrifice.  Careless  of  the 
dead  bard's  hand,  his  baby  fingers  plucked 
the  Celtic  harp. 

Lucius,  a  man  compounded  of  craft, 
sternness,  and  whimsical  kindness, 
stooped,  smiling,  to  loosen  the  dead  bard's 
hand.  When  he  arose,  he  lifted  up  Dun- 
wallo,  still  clinging  to  his  harp  of  broken 
strings.  Why  should  not  a  handful  of 
Druids  be  spared  to  train  this  winsome 
little  savage  as  a  minstrel  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  Rome? 


[44] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


II 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 

When  Caradoc  and  his  war-men  ap- 
proached Colchester  they  found  the  Brit- 
ish capital  in  the  hands  of  the  Romans. 
Claudius  himself  had  crossed  from  Italy  to 
lead  his  legionaries  in  their  assault  on  this 
'chief  stronghold  of  the  stubborn  islanders, 
who,  although  nominally  vassals  of  Rome 
for  almost  a  century,  had  furnished  no  end 
of  trouble.  Queen  Eigen  and  the  infant 
Princess  Imogen  had  been  seized  as  cap- 
tives, and  the  conquest  of  the  whole  island 
was  planned.  Stabbed  to  the  quick  by 
his  personal  losses,  Caradoc's  instant  de- 
cision was  for  the  utmost  defense  of  his 
kingdom.  Wheeling  his  black  stallion 
westward  again,  he  summoned  the  scat- 
tered British  forces  and  led  them  to  the 
mountains  of  Wales,  whence  for  seven 
years  he  harried  the  invaders  with  a  ruth- 
less guerilla  warfare.  Overwhelmed  in 
[47] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

the  end  and  made  -captive  through  treach- 
ery, he  found  himself  at  last  reunited  with 
Eigen,  whom  Lucius  had  treated  with 
complete   respect.     The   twain   of   them 
were  immediately  transported  to   Italy, 
weighed  down  with  a  heavy  load  of  grief. 
For  Lucius,  now  governor  of  the  palace  at 
Colchester,  kept  the  lovely  little  Princess 
Imogen  in  Britain.     Why  riot  so  educate 
Imogen,  reasoned  Lucius,  that  in  her  per- 
son Britannia  might  some  day  wed  Rome? 
The  prolonged  resistance  of  Caradoc  to 
the  "ever  victorious  legions"  had  given 
him  great  fame  in  Rome.     His  arrival 
was  therefore  made  the  occasion  of  tri- 
umphal rejoicing.     In  glory  of  Claudius, 
now  surnamed  Britannicus,  a  pageant  was 
marshaled  with  extraordinary  pomp  and 
splendour.    "The  land  of  the  wintry  pole" 
had  at  last  become  Rome's.     All  the  tem- 
ples were  thrown  open,  garlands  of  flowers 
decorated  every  shrine  and  image,  incense 
smoked  on  every  altar.     On  the  appointed 
day   the   procession   of   triumph    defiled 
along  the  Via  Sacra,  for  the  enjoyment  of 
[48] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


the  multitudes  and  the  especial  glorifica- 
tion of  the  vain  Claudius  and  his  newly 
wedded  Empress. 

First  came  the  Senate,  headed  by  the 
magistrates  and  the  victorious  general, 
Ostorius,  all  riding  in  chariots  of  state. 
Following  a  body  of  picked  trumpeters,  a 
train  of  carriages  rolled  by,  loaded  with 
spoils;  those  articles  that  were  deemed 
especially  remarkable  on  account  of  their 
beauty  or  rarity  being  disposed  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  be  seen  distinctly  by  the 
throngs,  who  were  shouting,  fflo  Tri- 
umphe!" 

Then  came  troops  of  litter  carriers, 
bearing  aloft  huge  sign-boards  whereon 
were  painted  in  large  letters  the  names  of 
the  vanquished  British  tribes.  Borne  on 
other  litters  were  models  in  ivory  and 
wood  of  the  forts  and  cities  captured  dur- 
ing the  seven-year  struggle,  together  with 
pictures  of  the  mountains,  rivers,  and 
other  outstanding  natural  features  of  the 
subjugated  region,  with  appropriate  in- 
scriptions. Gold  and  silver  in  coin  and 
bullion,  arms,  weapons,  cavalry  trappings 
[49] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

of  every  description,  vases,  and  other 
works  of  Celtic  art,  precious  stones,  elab- 
orately wrought  and  richly  embroidered 
stuffs,  and  every  object  that  could  be  re- 
garded as  valuable  or  curious,  were  car- 
ried high  upon  litters  and  frames. 

Preceded  by  a  band  of  flute-players 
came  now  the  white  oxen  destined  for 
sacrifice,  their  horns  gilded, — attended  by 
the  slaughtering  priests  with  their  imple- 
ments, and  followed  by  the  Camilli  bear- 
ing in  their  hands  sacred  vessels  and  in- 
struments. Behind  these  oxen  and  their 
attendants  swung  the  trained  elephants 
that  had  rendered  such  effective  service  in 
overcoming  the  British  resistance.  Then 
appeared  hordes  of  captives  in  fetters,  ter- 
rified by  multitudinous  shouts  of  "Vce 
Victis!" — "Woe  to  the  conquered !"  Last 
of  all  marched  Caradoc  and  Queen  Eigen, 
clad  in  their  lordliest  garments,  but  hum- 
bled with  chains. 

The   Queen,  who   still  retained  much 

of  the  maidenly  beauty  for  which  she  was 

famous,  was  attired  in  a  long  crimson 

gown,  above  which  was  a  tunic  with  flow- 

[50] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


ing  sleeves.  Fastened  about  her  neck  by 
a  curiously  wrought  golden  brooch  was  a 
mantle  of  blue,  edged  with  gold,  trailing 
almost  to  the  ground.  A  hood  half  cov- 
ered her  clustering  ringlet.  Her  gray 
eyes  were  so  clear  and  fearless,  her  car- 
riage so  upright  and  free,  that  many 
women  in  the  crowd  whispered  of  her  as 
"the  lioness." 

Marching  at  her  side  in  a  magnificent 
robe  of  ermine,  intended  as  his  shroud, 
Caradoc's  native  demeanor  was  such  that 
in  place  of  the  bloodthirsty  cries  of  Vce 
Victlsl  the  populace  actually  began  to 
shout  his  acclaim.  "With  a  countenance 
still  unaltered,"  reports  the  Roman  chron- 
icler himself,  "not  a  symptom  of  fear 
appearing, — no  sorrow,  no  condescension, 
—he  behaved  with  dignity  even  in  ruin." 

On  the  Imperial  tribunal  Claudius  sat 
enthroned :  attired  in  the  purple  of  a  gen- 
eral, with  oak-leaf  crown  and  a  scepter 
of  ivory.  Stiff  with  brocade  at  his  side 
sat  Agrippina — who  was  to  murder  him 
that  she  might  enthrone  Nero,  her  son; 
who  in  turn  was  to  murder  his  mother — 
[51] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

and  for  the  first  time  in  Roman  history 
the  supreme  insignia  waved  over  the  head 
of  a  woman. 

Claudius  and  even  Agrippina  were  im- 
pressed by  the  simple  majesty  of  Caradoc, 
steeped  though  they  were  in  that  tradi- 
tion recorded  by  Cicero,  "It  is  the  great- 
est pleasure  in  life  to  behold  a  brave  en- 
emy led  to  his  torture  and  death."  When 
Caradoc  and  Eigen  came  opposite  the 
empurpled  tribunal,  Claudius  intimated 
to  the  captive  King  that  he  might  speak. 

With  majestic  simplicity  Caradoc  com- 
bined deep  sagacity.  On  the  instant  he 
framed  a  most  skillful  appeal  to  the  en- 
throned couple  to  spare  the  lives  of  Eigen 
and  himself  as  a  memorial  to  the  clemency 
Df  Rome: 

"I  had  arms,  men,  and  horses;  I  had 
wealth  in  abundance ;  can  ye  wonder  I  was 
unwilling  to  lose  them?  The  ambition  of 
Rome  aspires  to  world-wide  dominion: 
must  mankind,  in  consequence,  stretch  out 
their  necks  to  the  yoke  ?  For  years  I  held 
you  at  bay:  had  I  done  otherwise,  where 
had  been  the  glory  of  your  conquest,  or 
[52] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


my  honour  in  courageous  resistance?  I 
am  at  your  mercy!  If  ye  be  bent  on  ven- 
geance, strike! — the  bloody  scene  will 
quickly  pass,  and  the  name  of  Caradoc 
sink  to  oblivion.  On  the  other  hand,  by 
the  preservation  of  life  ye  shall  rear  to 
late  posterity  a  monument  to  the  clemency 
of  Rome!"  " 

Amid  the  acclamations  of  the  multi- 
tude the  politic  Claudius,  after  conferring 
with  Agrippina,  not  only  spared  the  lives 
of  the  British  King  and  Queen,  but — at 
the  timid  suggestion  of  Eigen — gave  them 
permission  to  dwell  outside  the  City  gates, 
wherein  they  felt  like  caged  eagles.  They 
were  accordingly  lodged  forthwith  in  the 
Prsetorian  Camp,  where  they  lived  in  con- 
siderable comfort. 

Here  the  Emperor  and  Empress,  char- 
ioteering, occasionally  observed  the  dis- 
tinguished figure  of  Caradoc,  and,  sum- 
moning him  to  their  side,  conversed  with 
him  in  good  fellowship.  Although  a  cap- 
tive, Caradoc  became  one  of  the  fashion- 
able curiosities  of  Rome. 

It  was  during  one  of  these  gateway 
[53] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

audiences  that  he  received  a  peculiar  mark 
of  the  Imperial  favor.  Claudius  put  in- 
to his  hands  one  day  a  rescript,  giving  him 
permission  to  return  to  Britain  under 
the  safe-conduct  of  Rome,  should  he  see 
fit  at  any  time  to  renounce  his  claim  to  the 
throne.  Caradoc  smiled  and  shook  his 
head  as  he  received  the  rescript. 

"Although  I  have  no  intent  ever  to  set 
seal  to  this  parchment,"  he  said,  respect- 
fully, "I  accept  it,  and  shall  cherish  it 
always  as  a  token  of  the  Imperial  kind- 


ness." 


Twelve  years  passed  by  before  he  used 
it.  He  might  never  have  done  so  at  all 
had  not  the  death  of  Queen  Eigen,  which 
utterly  broke  and  unnerved  him,  been 
followed  by  the  coming  of  the  Sage. 

Ten  years  the  King  and  his  Queen  had 
lived  together  in  a  reasonably  comfortable 
captivity,  wherein  they  came  to  be  all  in 
all  to  each  other.  Soon  after  their  arrival 
at  Rome  they  had  learned  of  the  death, 
by  the  plague,  of  "the  Princess  Imogen." 
It  was  really  the  aunt  of  their  own  little 
Imogen  that  had  died,  the  Imogen  of 
[54] 


A  white-haired   prisoner  from   Palestine" 
From  a  painting  by  Rembrandt 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


whom  Shakspeare  writes.  But  the  Ro- 
man officials  did  not  undeceive  them. 
Lucius  himself  had  deliberately  communi- 
cated the  ambiguous  news  to  the  colonial 
office  in  Rome.  His  plans  for  the  future 
of  the  infant  Crown  Princess  involved  the 
widening  of  the  breach  between  parents 
and  child  in  every  way  possible.  Re- 
signed, in  the  course  of  time,  to  the  loss  of 
their  Imogen,  the  couple  had  only  each 
other.  It  was  therefore  a  stroke  of  the 
most  poignant  bereavement  when  the 
exiled  King  bade  farewell  forever  to  the 
devoted  companion  of  his  solitude. 

In  vain  did  he  endeavor  to  solace  him- 
self with  ill-remembered  fragments  of  the 
Druidic  doctrine  of  immortality.  He  had 
despised  such  teachings  when  he  had  no 
need  of  them,  and  now  that  he  grasped  at 
the  straws  of  hope  they  whirled  from  his 
memory.  Moody  and  contemplative,  he 
was  ripe  for  the  visit  of  the  Sage. 

The  Sage  was  a  white-haired  prisoner 
from  Palestine,  who,  taking  advantage  of 
his  rights  as  a  Roman  citizen,  had  ap- 
pealed to  the  highest  tribunal  for  trial. 
[57] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

After  shipwreck  and  many  discomfitures 
on  the  arduous  journey,  he  came  in  under 
guard  along  the  Appian  Way  at  the  close 
of  a  summer's  day.  The  tired  guardsmen 
gave  him  in  custody  for  the  night  to  the 
Captain  of  the  Praetorian  Camp,  where 
Caradoc  was  quartered  in  loneliness.  The 
Camp  being  crowded  at  the  time,  the  Cap- 
tain lodged  his  stately  prisoner  with  Cara- 
doc. There  was  that  in  the  demeanour 
of  the  Sage  that  bespoke  his  own  innate 
nobility,  so  that  the  courteous  Roman  offi- 
cer lodged  like  with  like. 

Using  the  universal  language  of  Rome, 
the  two  prisoners  talked  throughout  the 
night.  Never  could  Caradoc  forget  the 
mien  of  this  marvelous  man,  nor  his  even 
more  marvelous  message.  In  vague  po- 
etic fashion  the  Druids  had  argued  of  life 
out  of  death  from  their  magic  symbol  of 
the  mistletoe,  All-Heal,  growing  indepen- 
dent and  lone  from  the  trunks  of  the 
stricken  oaks.  In  powerful  contrast  with 
such  fantasies,  Caradoc  now  listened  to 
the  crystal  clear  teaching  of  the  Sage,  who 
spoke  as  one  having  authority. 
[58] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


"One  hath  brought  life  and  immortality 
to  light"  said  he. 

The  Sage  entered  the  City  on  the  fol- 
lowing morning,  and  two  years  passed 
before  these  two  met  again.  In  all  that 
time  there  was  scarcely  a  day  when  the 
bereaved  Caradoc,  strangely  comforted  by 
the  supreme  confidence  with  which  this 
Sage  had  spoken, — scarcely  a  day  passed 
when  he  failed  to  repeat  to  himself  the 
sonorous  solemn  music  that  had  fallen 
from  the  lips  of  Paul  of  Tarsus,— 

"As  we  have  borne  the  image  of  the 
earthy,  we  shall  also  bear  the  image  of 
the  heavenly.  For  this  corruption  must 
put  on  incorruption,  and  this  mortal  must 
put  on  immortality." 

It  was  in  the  Vale  of  Nemi  that  the  two 
courtly  prisoners  met  again,  led  to  their 
meeting,  unconsciously  enough,  by  Pop- 
poea  Victrix.  Her  surname,  The  Victor- 
ious, was  well  deserved.  Even  Nero  she 
had  utterly  vanquished;  for  her  sake  he 
had  put  his  Empress  away.  This  Emper- 
or who  was  "at  once  a  priest,  an  atheist, 
and  a  god,"  believed  himself  also  to  be  a 
[59] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

poet.  In  meretricious  verse  that  stirred 
the  secret  ridicule  of  literary  Rome,  he 
has  at  least  embalmed  for  us  those  "amber 
tresses"  in  which  he  was  entangled — the 
amber  tresses  of  his  friend  Otho's  wife, 
Poppcea,  who  kept  five  hundred  she-asses 
to  supply  the  milk  in  which  she  bathed, 
'and  who  had  her  mules  shod  with  gold 
when  she  traveled! 

Honey  Pot  was  incessantly  greedy. 
Charioteering  idly  through  the  City  gates, 
her  beautiful  roving  eyes  fell  one  day  on 
the  figure  of  Caradoc,  and  when  she  knew 
who  he  was,  she  desired  him. 

Stupid  Nero  had  devised  a  perfect 
means  to  her  end.  In  some  strange  mood 
of  fantastic  satire,  or  perchance  in  the 
crazy  endeavour  to  conceal  her  real  char- 
acter, he  had  recently  consecrated  Poppcea 
as  High  Priestess  of  Diana,  goddess  of 
purity,  whose  chief  shrine  was  in  the 
gloomy  Vale  of  Nemi.  No  sooner  did 
this  spurious  Priestess  spy  the  King  from 
the  oak-groves  of  Britain  and  yearn 
toward  him,  than  the  mischievous  notion 
possessed  her  to  anoint  him  a^  "Rex 
[60] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


Nemorensis,"  King  of  the  Grove  of  Diana 
at  Nemi,  and  alone  privileged,  from  times 
immemorial,  to  consort  with  the  Priestess 
herself.  What  mattered  it  that  the  anoint- 
ment was  by  blood?  The  barbaric  King 
from  the  wildwood  looked  doughty  enough 
for  ordeal  by  battle,  and  she  resolved  to 
give  him  secret  aid  if  he  deserved  it. 

A  centurion  came  from  Poppoea  by 
night  and  spirited  him  away  to  the  Vale  of 
Nemi.  So  it  was  that  in  a  dawn  of  sil- 
vered moonlight  Caradoc  found  himself 
involved  in  the  hoariest  and  weirdest  rite 
of  all  antiquity. 

This  rite  had  to  do  with  the  mistletoe- 
named  by  Virgil  "the  Golden  Bough" 
when  he  chose  it  as  the  supreme  symbol 
of  freedom.  Most  famous  of  all  mistletoe 
shrines  was  Diana's  Oak  in  the  Grove  of 
Nemi,  whose  guardian  priest  always  owed 
his  freedom  from  slavery  to  the  Golden 
Bough,  which  he  must  thenceforward 
guard  with  his  life.  None  but  a  slave 
could  succeed  to  this  uncanny  priesthood, 
and  he  by  plucking  a  spray  of  the  Golden 
Bough  from  the  heart  of  Diana's-  Oak. 
[61] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

To  do  this  he  must  engage  in  mortal  com- 
bat with  the  priest  whom  he  would  sup- 
plant— either  slaying  the  priestly  guard- 
ian, or  himself  being  slain  by  him. 

Deep  in  the  shady  sadness  of  the  vale 
of  Nemi  gloomed  Diana's  Oak:  described 
in  an  ancient  Roman  song  as 

"The  tree  in  whose  dim  shadow 

The  ghastly  priest  doth  reign; 

The  pi  est  who  slew  the  slayer 

And  shall  himself  be  slain." 

Under  this  Oak,  night  and  day,  walked 
Rex  Nemorensis,  the  luckless  Priest  of 
Diana,  guarding  with  sharpened  sword 
the  Golden  Bough.  "He  kept  peering 
warily  about  him  as  if  at  every  instant  he 
expected  to  be  set  upon  by  an  enemy.  He 
was  a  priest  and  a  murderer ;  and  the  man 
for  whom  he  looked  was  sooner  or  later  to 
murder  him  and  hold  the  priesthood  in 
his  stead.  Year  in,  year  out,  in  summer 
and  winter,  in  fair  weather  and  in  foul,  he 
had  to  keep  his  lonely  watch,  and  when- 
ever he  snatched  a  troubled  slumber  it  was- 
at  the  peril  of  his  life.  It  is  a  somber  pic- 
ture,— the  background  of  forest  showing 
[62] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


black  and  jagged  against  a  lowering  sky, 
and  in  the  foreground,  pacing  to  and  fro, 
a  dark  figure  with  a  glitter  of  steel  at  the 
shoulders  whenever  the  pale  moon,  riding 
clear  of  the  cloud-rack,  peers  down  at  him 
through  the  matted  boughs." 

Such  was  the  scene  that  met  Caradoc 
as  he  stood  on  the  bank  near  the  Oak.  He 
had  no  knowledge  why  he  had  been 
brought  to  this  place.  Poppoea  he  did  not 
know  except  by  hearsay,  and  he  knew  not 
that  she  knew  him.  Yet  she  was  only  a 
few  yards  away,  concealed  behind  a  lau- 
rel on  the  lakeshore, — quite  alone,  but 
with  slaves  within  call.  For  her  private 
enjoyment  this  insatiate  lover  of  sensation 
had  staged  a  gladiatorial  surprise  for  the 
British  war-man,  as  a  prelude  to  her 
friendship,  should  he  win. 

The  centurion  snapped  free  the  slender 
chain  that  bound  his  prisoner's  wrist,  and 
thrust  Caradoc  down  the  slope  toward  the 
Oak.  Instantly  a  stealthy  figure  sprang 
out  from  the  shade  of  the  tree,  and  the 
moonlight  flashed  on  a  brandished  blade. 
Instinctively  Caradoc  defended  himself 
with  bare  hands  as  best  he  might.  Then 
[63] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

there  flooded  through  his  veins  the  red 
tide  of  battle,  racing  riotously  through 
channels  long  disused. 

Erect  and  lithe  as  of  old,  rejoicing  as  a 
strong  man  in  this  swift  return  of  his 
youth,  he  dashed  the  blade  swirling 
through  the  moonlight,  and  felled  the  now 
defenseless  priest  with  a  blow. 

He  stood  over  him,  startled  by  his  un- 
expected adventure,  mystified  by  the  mys- 
tical scene.  The  prostrate  priest  made  no 
sign.  Before  he  could  stoop  to  revive 
him,  Caradoc  heard  a  soft  rustling,  and 
turned. 

"Thou  hast  conquered!"  spoke  a  silver- 
throated  voice. 

He  did  not  know  who  she  was.  She 
was  beautiful,  but  he  had  no  mind  for  her. 
His  heart  slept  in  the  urn  with  Eigen. 

"Hand  me  the  sword,"  Poppcea  com- 
manded. 

He  stepped  to  the  spot  where  it  had 
fallen,  out  into  the  clearer  light  of  dawn. 
Poppoea  followed  him.  Unseen  by 
Caradoc,  two  of  her  slaves,  acting  under 
instructions,  slipped  from  the  bank  to  the 
[64] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


shade  of  the  Oak.  They  stooped  above 
the  body  of  the  priest.  Caradoc's  blow 
had  merely  stunned  him,  but  now  a  dirk 
flashed,  swift  and  silent,  and  the  slaves 
bore  the  body  away. 

Caradoc  lifted  up  the  sword,  and  handed 
it  to  Diana's  Priestess. 

"Now  I  shall  give  it  back  to  thee,"  Pop- 
pcea  murmured,  "and  with  it  thou  win- 
nest  thy  freedom." 

"What  meanest  thou? 

"Thou  art  King  of  the  Grove,"  she 
said.  "Take  this  sword  and  guard  the 
sacred  tree.  No  one  shall  ever  molest 
thee.  I,  thy  secret  friend,  will  see  to  that. 
Take  also  this  badge  of  thy  freedom." 

Caradoc  took  the  sword  from  her  hands 
in  silent  wonderment,  with  a  spray  of  the 
Golden  Bough.  It  was  precisely  as  when 
Dalian  the  Arch  Druid  had  handed  him 
the  sword  "Trifmgus"  on  the  day  of  cor- 
ronation  at  Colchester,  together  with  a 
mistletoe  bough,  and  had  charged  him  to 
guard  the  sacred  Oak.  Why  should  the 
same  rites  exist  here,  in  such  wholly  dif- 
ferent surroundings?  A  shiver  of  super- 
stitious awe  passed  through  his  frame.  ' 
[65] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

"The  dawn  is  chill,"  smiled  the  amber- 
tressed  Poppcea,  "The  centurion  kept 
me  waiting  while  he  brought  thee, — but 
'twas  worth  it  to  watch  the  whirling  of  that 
sword!" 

Her  laughter  was  the  cadence  of  a 
song. 

"What  meanest  thou?"  he  asked  the 
second  time.  His  brain  was  stupefied. 

"That  will  I  tell  thee  when  once  again 
Diana's  moon  shall  swing  above  us. 
Now  the  dawn  calls,  and  I  must  go.  See, 
the  slaves  of  the  dead  priest  shall  serve 
thee!" 

Cardoc  turned.  Slaves  stood  near 
the  tree  with  laden  salvers.  They  ap- 
proached, and  began  to  spread  a  feast. 
When  he  faced  once  more  toward 
Poppoea,  she  had  gone .... 

He  sat  on  the  moss-covered  bank  far 
into  the  morning,  pondering  what  had  be- 
fallen. Meanwhile,  Rome  was  enjoying 
a  minor  sensation.  There  were  no  news- 
papers in  those  days,  but  public  bulletins 
took  their  place,  and  rumour  was  fleet 
then  as  now.  With  due  official  authority 
[66] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


it  was  promptly  announced  that  Caradoc, 
captive  King  of  Britain,  had  seized  the 
prerogative  of  slaves  and  won  freedom  as 
King  of  the  Grove.  Poppcea  had  looked 
after  that. 

Paul  of  Tarsus  heard  the  news  from  the 
officer  of  the  guard,  who  had  lately  be- 
come his  disciple.  He  had  attracted 
many  followers  during  the  two  years  he 
had  been  privileged  to  live  in  his  own 
hired  house,  and  was  known  to  be  especi- 
ally interested  in  the  study  of  blood  sac- 
rifice. At  the  time,  he  was  writing  an  im- 
portant monograph  on  this  subject,  after- 
wards termed  an  epistle.  He  had  long 
desired  to  visit  the  famed  Oak  of  Diana, 
and  investigate  for  himself  its  weird  rit- 
ual. When  he  heard  the  name  of  Caradoc 
again,  he  recalled  with  stirring  interest 
the  night  they  had  spent  talking  together 
in  the  Praetorian  Camp.  He  resolved  to 
go  to  see  him  if  he  could.  With  char- 
acteristic earnestness  hard  to  be  denied, 
he  requested  of  the  officer  of  the  guard 
that  he  might  on  that  very  morning  take 
advantage  of  a  long-promised  privilege 
[67] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

to  journey  outside  the  City  gates-  Be- 
fore noon  he  and  his  Roman  disciple  were 
on  their  way  to  the  Vale  of  Nemi. 

Caradoc  greeted  his  scholarly  visitor 
with  joy;  he  knew  of  no  one  in  all  the 
world  he  would  have  preferred  to  him. 
Paul,  a  man  of  impetuous  directness, 
asked  him  immediately  how  he  came  there. 

When  Caradoc  recounted  the  strange 
story  of  the  preceding  night,  Paul  became 
thoroughly  alarmed  for  him.  Poppoea 
Victrix  was  seeking  out  a  new  victim! 
He  explained  to  Caradoc  the  terrible  dan- 
ger he  was  in:  Nero's  mistress  had  in- 
volved him  in  seeming  intrigue.  Caradoc 
gave  but  scant  heed  to  this  peril,  so  eager 
was  he  for  the  Sage  to  take  up  the  broken 
thread  of  his  narrative,  interrupted  two 
years  before.  As  Paul  now  spoke  of  the 
Unknown  God  whom  ignorantly  both 
Druids  and  Romans  worshiped,  compress- 
ing his  entire  philosophy  into  the  sentence, 
"Love  is  the  fulfilling  of  the  law," 
Caradoc's  face  shone  as  with  an  inner 
light.  "He  is  the  God  not  of  the  dead, 
but  of  the  living,"  said  Paul.  "He  came 
[68] 


CARADOC  IN  ROME 


that  we  might  have  life,  that  we  might 
have  life  more  abundantly."  Then,  as 
Paul  sketched  with  masterful  strokes  and 
with  a  supremely  confident  faith  the  mes- 
sage of  the  Manger  and  the  Cross,  Cara- 
doc  caught  the  high  contagion  of  his  zeal. 
His  eyes  flashing,  the  King  leaped  to  his 
feet.  ' 

Paul  himself  became  greatly  excited 
when  Caradoc  drew  from  his  girdle  the 
rescript  of  Claudius,  and  proclaimed  his 
newly  formed  purpose. 

"Blessed  be  Claudius!"  cried  Caradoc. 
"I  will  accept  the  Imperial  safe-conduct, 
and  go  back  straightway  to  Britain!  I 
will  freely  renounce  my  own  Kingdom  to 
tell  my  people  of  this  holy  King  of  Love ! 
There  shall  come  a  new  world  to  all  peo- 
ple: built  on  freedom  instead  of  fear,  on 
forgiveness  instead  of  vengeance,  on  life, 
and  not  death!" 

For  once  Diana's  Grove  was  left  un- 
guarded, save  by  slaves,  as  Caradoc  has- 
tened wih  Paul  and  the  officer  of  the  guard 
to  the  palace,  to  arrange  for  departure  for 
Britain.  As  they  traveled,  Paul  enthusi- 
[69] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

astically  pointed  out  that  under  favourable 
weather  conditions  his  new  disciple  might 
expect  to  reach  Britain  about  the  time  of 
the  winter  solstice — celebrated  as  Christ- 
mas by  the  Christians,  as  Yule  by  the 
Norsemen  and  Druids,  and  by  Romans 
with  the  Feast  of  Saturnalia. 

When  the  spurious  Diana  returned  to 
her  Oak  on  the  following  night  it  fared  ill 
with  two  hapless  slaves.  On  them  alone 
could  she  vent  her  displeasure,  since  in- 
trigues involve  secrecy. 


[70] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


Ill 

NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 

Imogen,  so  far  from  being  lost,  as  her 
father  had  long  supposed,  attained  her 
majority  during  the  summer  preceding 
Caradoc's  departure  for  home,  the  most 
beautiful  woman  in  Britain.  She  strik- 
ingly resembled  her  mother,  the  Queen,  as 
that  noted  beauty  had  looked  in  her  girl- 
hood, but  with  an  added  grace  and  deli- 
cacy of  manner  due  to  her  life  in  the 
household  of  Lucius.  She  had  the  free 
upright  carriage  and  fearless  gray  eyes  of 
"Eigen  the  lioness,"  with  her  mother's 
charmingly  modeled  features.  Ruddy- 
crowned  like  her  father  Caradoc,  and  shar- 
ing his  singular  power  to  attract,  she  was 
touched  above  all  with  a  bloom  that  be- 
spoke the  rare  culture  of  Rome.  Lucius, 
although  increasingly  kind  with  the  years, 
had  never  once  relaxed  his  strong  resolu- 
[73] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

tion  to  wed  Britain,  through  Imogen,  with 
Rome.  Since  babyhood  this  thought  had 
been  daily  drilled  into  her  mind.  When 
she  came  of  age  in  the  summer  of  the  year 
62,  he  seemed  about  to  see  the  crowning 
of  his  statecraft. 

Britain  had  become  a  land  of  sharp  con- 
trasts, particularly  at  Colchester.  There 
Lucius  dwelt  in  marble  halls;  there  also 
a  temple  had  been  consecrated  in  honor 
of  Claudius,  a  statue  of  Victory  set  up  in 
the  well-paved  streets,  and  a  resplendent 
theater  provided  for  the  large  colony  of 
Romans.  The  British,  on  the  other  hand, 
endured  unending  poverty  and  oppres- 
sion, ground  by  the  heel  of  their  conquer- 
ors. Their  dwellings  were  rude  log  huts, 
wattled  with  reeds. 

Imogen  was  the  only  bond  of  union  be- 
tween victors  and  vanquished.  The  Ro- 
mans respected  her  and  the  British  adored 
her.  Nurtured  in  the  lap  of  Roman  lux- 
ury, she  had  nevertheless  grown  up  as  free 
as  the  birds  of  the  air.  There  was  not  a 
British  peasant  girl  who  could  match  her 
swimming  stroke,  nor  any  Roman  youth 
[74] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


in  the  colony  who  surpassed  her  in  fal- 
conry or  archery.  The  little  remnant 
band  of  broken  Druids,  at  length  despair- 
ing of  Caradoc's  messianic  return,  pinned 
their  last  shred  of  hope  to  their  Princess. 

As  for  the  young  bard  Dunwallo,  he 
altogether  owed  her  his  life,  properly  for- 
feit to  the  gods  since  that  terrible  dooms- 
day— as  the  five  remaining  Druids  now 
always  called  it — when  the  young  King 
had  snatched  him  from  the  flames.  In 
his  role  as  harper  to  Lucius,  Dunwallo 
had  been  the  one  unfailing  means  of  com- 
munication between  the  Druids  and  their 
Princess,  and  therefore  his  life  had  been 
spared  by  them,  in  spite  of  old  Goran's 
fanaticism. 

These  were  the  conditions  existing  when 
the  long  expected  wedding  of  Imogen 
received  its  spectacular  setting.  Lucius 
planned  as  the  last  act  of  his  governor- 
ship her  marriage  with  Gallus,  the  youth- 
ful commander  whom  Nero  had  named  to 
succeed  him  at  his  own  request. 

To  make  this  wedding  gorgeously  sym- 
bolical, Neptune's  Feast  Day — July  23 — 
[75] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

of  the  year  62  A.  D.  had  been  chosen,  and 
the  event  itself  was  to  be  preceded  by  a 
brilliant  marine  pageant  at  the  mouth  of 
the  river  Colne,  twelve  miles  from  the 
capital. 

On  her  wedding  eve  "the  radiant  Im- 
ogen," as  she  was  now  universally  called, 
flitted  here  and  there  through  the  palace, 
a-glitter  with  lights, — making  merry  with 
her  army  of  tirewomen  and  caterers,  but 
unwontedly  restless  at  heart.  The  great 
awakening  had  never  really  come  to  her; 
she  did  not  know  what  love  was;  so  now, 
instinctively,  her  girlish  fancies  stirred  in 
blind  revolt.  The  marriage  had  seemed 
light  enough  as  Father  Lucius  arranged 
it,  so  long  as  it  lay  in  the  future ;  but  now 
that  to-morrow  was  to  be  the  last  day  of 
her  maidenhood,  her  spirts  were  turbu- 
lent within  her,  she  knew  not  why.  Like 
a  wood-nymph,  her  abundant  ruddy 
tresses  flowing  free,  she  ran  tip -toe  from 
room  to  room,  followed  by  the  smiles  of 
her  slave-women.  Airy,  fairy  Imogen, 
they  called  her.  Never  had  her  smile 
seemed  so  winsome,  never  her  glance  so 
[76] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


kind;  but  the  light  in  her  eye  was  as  the 
eaglet's  and  the  rebellion  in  her  breast  she 
could  not  quell. 

Darting  like  a  humming-bird  from 
room  to  room,  at  length  she  flung  wide  the 
doors  that  led  to  an  outer  balcony,  and 
stood  in  the  white  magic  moonlight, 
breathing  the  midsummer  air.  There  was 
turmoil  in  the  court-yard  below  her,  for 
the  whole  palace  was  astir  with  prepara- 
tion. Suddenly  she  made  out  Dunwallo 
- — distinguishable  among  the  crowd  of 
shock-haired  British  youths  in  the  moonlit 
court-yard  by  the  Celtic  harp  he  bore 
upon  his  arm. 

On  the  instant  she  clutched  at  her  heart. 
Swift  through  her  brain  flashed  the  knowl- 
edge that  her  lot  as  a  Roman  matron 
would  fence  her  off  forever  from  her  com- 
rade. With  no  thought  of  restraining  the 
impulse,  she  leaned  out  over  the  balcony 
and  called  his  name. 

He  looked  up  and  saw  her,  the  moon- 
light streaming  on  her  face.  She  was  his 
Princess,  and  he  worshiped  her  with  a 
feeling  like  awe ;  but  the  caste  that  separ- 
[77] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

ated  them  had  not  interfered  with  the 
wholesome  outdoor  comradeship  of  boy 
and  girl.  He  had  often  sung  to  Lucius 
in  the  gardens,  as  David  used  to  sing  to 
King  Saul;  Imogen  nestling  against  her 
gray-haired  guardian's  side,  drinking  Cel- 
tic folk-lore  from  the  harp-strings.  Not 
only  so,  but  they  had  roamed  field  and 
wildwood  together,  and  raced  through  the 
turbulent  surf.  Once,  in  their  earlier 
youth,  when  Myfanwy  came  through  the 
forests  from  Warwick  to  visit  her  minstrel 
son  at  the  capital,  the  two  children  had 
begged  over  and  over  again  for  the  won- 
derful story  of  Caradoc's  Oak,  still  stand- 
ing at  Warwick,  although  now  dead  to  the 
heart.  This  tale  formed  a  strong  bond  be- 
tween them.  Many  times  they  had  sat 
at  the  mouth  of  the  traditional  "Caradoc's 
Cave,"  under  the  cliff  by  the  river,  where 
Myfanwy  first  taught  them  the  story,  and 
told  it  each  to  the  other  by  turn. 

Dunwallo  looked  up  and  saw  her.     Her 

white  face,  straining  toward  him  in  the 

moonlight,   smote  like  a  blow  upon  his 

heart.     He  thrilled  to  that  in  her  tone  he 

[78] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


had  never  heard  in  any  voice  before.  He 
answered  her  with  a  rich  chord  of  music, 
but  he  knew  not  what  had  befallen. 

The  scene  lasted  only  an  instant.  Gal- 
lus,  his  scented  curls  crowned  with  the 
grape  leaves  and  his  dark  face  flushed  with 
their  wine,  strode  into  the  balcony  behind 
Imogen  and  crushed  her  shoulder  in  a 
grasp  domineering  and  sensual. 

"What  would'st  thou,  calling  to  a  ser- 
vant in  the  courtyard?" 

His  rasping  words  hurt  more  than  his 
grasp.  Other  gilded  Roman  youths  had 
toasted  him  all  too  hilariously  at  his  pre- 
nuptial  banqueting.  Imogen  shrank  back 
and  eluded  him.  Crimson  with  her  first 
sense  of  shame,  quickened  with  her  first 
sense  of  terror,  her  shoulder  burning  where 
his  hot  hand  had  clutched  her,  she  fled  to 
her  rooms.  The  wedding  dress  was  lying 
on  a  couch.  She  fingered  it,  nervously, 
and  half  against  her  will,  with  deep  repul- 
sion. It  felt  rough  to  her  touch,  and  a 
needle  left  carelessly  in  the  hem  pricked 
her  tender  hand  and  drew  blood.  The 
sight  appalled  her ;  she  was  not  without  the 
[79] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

superstitions  of  her  time.  More  restless 
than  ever,  the  smile  gone  from  her  lips,  she 
flitted  out  again  into  the  halls,  so  white  and 
cold.  She  came  suddenly  on  gray-haired 
Lucius  at  a  turning.  His  smile  was  very 
gentle  as  he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her  forehead ;  he  was  troubled  to  see  tears 
well  from  her  eyes  as  she  slipped  from  him. 
She  was  choking  with  a  surge  of  new  emo- 
tions. Scarcely  knowing  what  she  was 
doing,  she  glided  down  the  gleaming 
stairs  out  into  the  scented  gardens  where 
fountains  played.  But  she  was  craving 
for  Nature  herself,  wild  and  beautiful  and 
wise.  Through  the  narrow  postern  gate 
she  made  her  way,  fleet-footed,  down  the 
cliff  and  through  the  buttercups  of  the 
meadows,  to  the  group  of  friendly  little 
fir-trees  near  the  entrance  to  Caradoc's 
Cave.  There,  where  she  had  often  sat 
with  Dunwallo, — there,  where  Myfanwy 
had  enchanted  her  round-eyed  childhood 
with  the  tale  of  her  exiled  father,  she  sat 
down  on  the  moss-covered  stone  which,  as 
legend  had  it,  had  closed  the  hoary  door- 
way of  the  cavern  until  the  boy  Caradoc 
cleared  it  away. 

[80] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


She  had  no  thought  of  what  had  hap- 
pened to  Dunwallo,  no  thought  of  what 
had  happened  to  herself.  He,  poor  bard, 
had  of  a  sudden  become  himself  a  harp, 
played  on  with  sweet  tumultuous  music. 
In  a  fever  of  restlessnes  that  he  could 
not  understand,  he,  too,  had  been  roaming 
the  moonlit  night.  Beautiful  as  Endym- 
ion  whom  Diana  loved,  but  filled  with 
brooding  melancholy  by  the  curse  resting 
always  upon  him,  the  young  bardic  Ham- 
let to-night  sought  his  lonely  refuge  in 
Caradoc's  Cave.  A  while  before  Imogen 
had  half  unconsciously  found  her  way 
to  the  mossy  stone  under  the  fir-trees, 
Dunwallo  had  flung  out  of  the  court-yard 
and  over  the  cliff  to  his  cavern.  He  knelt 
now  in  its  inmost  recesses,  gazing  into  the 
heart  of  a  little  fire. 

Imogen  had  no  thought  of  his  nearness 
as  she  sat  in  a  halo  of  moonlight,  her 
hands  clasped,  her  breast  heaving,  fac- 
ing the  great  awakening,  as  yet  unguessed. 

Visions     flitted     through     Dunwallo's 
flickering  firelight,  visions  he  had  often 
seen  before.     They  were  always  visions  of 
[81] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

Imogen.  There  was  a  soft  vision  of  baby- 
hood, seen  through  the  eyes  of  Myf aiiwy : 
a  cruel  priest,  a  saffron  pone,  a  great  god- 
like man  seizing  him  from  darkness  and 
pain,  a  mighty  tumult,  and  then  a  Roman 
holding  him  up  on  his  arm.  Always,  for 
some  unexplained  reason,  the  Roman, 
whom  he  knew  to  be  Lucius,  held  Imogen 
upon  the  other  arm.  Then  there  was  a 
day  in  the  forest  when  with  all  his  boyish 
strength  and  cunning  he  saved  her  from 
the  jaws  of  the  she- wolf  they  had  together 
cheated  of  her  cub.  There  was  another 
day  when  he  lay  bleeding  and  senseless 
at  the  foot  of  the  waterfall  whose  side  he 
had  scaled  for  a  splendid  flower  for 
Imogen;  and  when  he  opened  his  eyes  it 
was  Imogen  whose  brown  hands  had  re- 
vived him  with  water  from  the  brook. 
There  were  races  through  the  surf  and  the 
sea,  and  there  was  the  rescue  of  the  poor 
screaming  hare  from  the  talons  of  the  fal- 
con, when  Imogen  had  wept  like  a  girl— 
for  tears  had  been  strange  in  the  eyes  of 
this  beautiful  tomboy.  Then  there  were 
those  innumerable  golden  moments  in  the 
[82] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


scenjed  gardens,  Imogen  nestling  against 
the  shadowed  figure  of  Lucius,  she  herself 
as  bright  and  clear  as  gold,  while  Dun- 
wallo  sang  his  wild  Celtic  music  to  the 
tunes  of  his  sweet  Celtic  harp.  Dreamily 
he  took  it  up  now,  a  mysterious  new  tu- 
mult within  him,  its  meaning  as  yet  un- 
guessed.  "Rose  of  the  World,"  was  the 
song  that  he  sang;  and  Imogen,  out  in 
the  moonlight,  caught  the  weird  strains 
from  the  cave,  and  lifted  up  her  head  in 
ireamy  wonder. 

"Once  upon  a  morn  of  May 
All  the  meadowlands  were  gay, 
All  the  tree  of  life  was  dight 
With  the  blossoms  of  delight. 

'  'Lo !'     I  said  unto  my  spirit, 
'Earth  and  sky  thou  dost  inherit !' 
Forth  I  wandered,  free  of  care, 
In  the  largesse  of  the  air. 

"By  there  came  a  damosel; 
At  a  look  I  loved  her  well: 

But  she  passed  and  would  not  stay — 

All  my  j  oy  is  gone  away ! 

"Now  no  fields  are  fair  to  see, 
Nor  the  buds  on  any  tree ; 

[83] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

Nor  care  I  for  earth  or  sky — 
All  for  a  maiden's  passing  by !" 

While  he  chanted  the  last  cadence  of 
the  song,  Dunwallo's  brain  was  lit  as  by 
a  flash  of  lightning,  which  illumined  his 
whole  being,  and  also  warmed  him  like 
wine.  From  the  little  fire  he  marched  out 
into  the  white  magic  light  of  the  moon, 
his  forehead  uplifted  and  shining,  his  eyes 
indeed  "like  twin  stars."  His  face  was  set 
with  a  resolution  both  inflexible  and  ten- 
der. Imogen  beheld  a  young  god. 

They  were  not  Princess  and  serf  any 
longer,  nor  did  any  curse  seem  to  rest  on 
Endymion.  Diana  uttered  a  small  muf- 
fled cry.  Dunwallo  marched  straight  to- 
ward his  goddess.  He  knelt  at  her  feet 
beside  Caradoc's  Stone,  and  the  spirit  of 
the  great  Nursing-Father  of  Britain 
brooded  over  his  children.  Imogen 
stooped,  and  her  cheek  touched  Dun- 
wallo's dark  hair,  her  own  wealth  of  un- 
handed tresses  shining  in  the  moonlight 
like  spun  gold.  Then  the  two  heard  that 
music  from  the  hidden  inner  shrine  of  life 
itself  which  mortals  are  thrice  happy  if 
[84] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


they  hear  but  once,  and  which  it  is  given  to 
no  mortal  ear  to  hear  a  second  time  this 
side  of  heaven*. 

"Love  took  up  the  Harp  of  Life,  and  smote  on  all 
the  chords  with  might, 

Smote  the  chord  of  self  that,  trembling, 

past  in  music  out  of  sight.".  .  „ 

The  light  of  resolution  in  Dunwallo's 
face  did  not  melt  under  the  spell  of  his 
love.  For  the  once  he  was  freed  from  all 
moodiness.  He  raised  his  head  and 
looked  with  deep  eyes  into  Imogen's, 
dreamy  with  wonder. 

"Thou  takest  me,  O  radiant  Imogen, 
in  place  of  Gallus?" 

His  clear  tones  vibrated  with  an  excit- 
ed sense  of  repressed  action ;  they  rang  as 
with  a  touch  of  tempered  steel,  and  quick- 
ened Imogen  out  of  her  reverie.  She 
shuddered  at  the  mention  of  Gallus,  and 
leaped  to  her  feet. 

Dunwallo  sprang  up  beside  her. 
Tensely  holding  each  other's  hands,  they 
planned  swiftly  a  means  of  escape — 
their  young  brains  on  their  mettle,  and 
racing.  They  would  flee  during  Nep- 
[85] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

tune's  Feast !  They  both  knew  enough  of 
the  programme  planned  for  the  next  after- 
noon to  understand  that  Imogen  herself, 
representing  Britannia,  was  to  march  out 
through  the  shallows  of  the  cove  and  pay 
tribute  to  Gallus,  as  Neptune,  on  his  wa- 
tery throne.  It  was  Dunwallo's  eager 
suggestion  that  Imogen,  this  done,  should 
make  some  playful  excuse  to  leap  from 
the  throne-rocks  into  the  sea,  where  she 
was  quite  as  much  at  home  as  on  land. 
He,  meanwhile,  would  be  waiting  behind 
the  sharp  southern  headland,  which  jutted 
out  and  hugged  the  cove  like  an  arm. 
The  five  Druids  must  be  taken  into  con- 
fidence! With  their  aid  Imogen  should 
journey  by  forest  and  river  to  Warwick, 
and  the  hut  where  Myf anwy  still  lived. 

Before  Imogen  stole  back  through  the 
postern  gate,  the  plans  of  the  two  forest- 
lovers  had  been  woven,  and  laid  on  the  lap 
of  the  gods.  The  sea-god  Neptune  must 
have  resented  the  audacity  of  his  drunken 
impersonator,  next  day,  for  the  blunder- 
some  Gallus  himself  became  the  fool  in  a 
farcical  comedy,  and  tool  to  these  lovers' 
desire. 

[86] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


Ai  this  time  the  sandy  cove  at  the  mouth 
of  the  river  Colne,  only  twelve  miles  from 
the  capital,  furnished  a  perfect  marine 
stage  for  Neptune's  festival.  It  was  pro- 
tected by  headlands  on  either  side,  and  a 
rocky  islet  near  the  center  of  the  cove  of- 
fered itself  as  a  pedestal  for  the  sea-god's 
throne. 

The  entire  Roman  colony  turned  out 
hilariously  to  see  Britain  become  indeed 
"Neptune's  park,"  through  this  allegor- 
ical wedding  of  the  Princess  Imogen  with 
Gallus,  The  strand  was  lined  with  booths 
built  of  freshly  cut  boughs,  and  covered 
with  masses  of  oak-leaves,  affording  a 
grateful  protection  from  the  heat  of  the 
afternoon  sun.  In  these  booths  the  col- 
onists, old  and  young,  were  feasting  and 
drinking  at  the  expense  of  the  generous 
Lucius,  who,  with  special  guests  from  the 
palace,  occupied  the  booth  in  the  center. 

Scattered  shouts  of  applause  greeted 
the  first  sign  of  the  approaching  ceremon- 
ial, as  Portunus,  guardian  of  harbours, 
strode  out  from  the  beach  toward  Nep- 
tune's throne.  Gaffer  JLeir,  the  oldest 
[87] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

British  inhabitant  of  the  country,  had  been 
pressed  into  service  for  this  part.  A  hulk- 
ing giant  of  a  man,  still  straight  despite  his 
eighty  years,  he  drew  applause  for  his 
own  majestic  bearing  as  he  waded  out 
through  the  shallows — a  mantle  of  British 
scarlet  cast  loosely  about  his  broad  shoul- 
ders, his  white  beard  tossed  by  the  wind, 
and  in  his  hands  the  gigantic  key  he  was 
to  present  to  Neptune  in  token  of  a  wel- 
come even  from  the  British. 

Following  Portunus,  and  gaily  chiding 
him  now  and  then  for  the  majestic  slow- 
ness of  his  gait,  were  two  tall  Roman  girls 
cast  for  the  parts  of  Ino  and  Thalassa, 
to  stand  as  handmaids  on  either  side  of 
Neptune's  throne.  Representing  as  they 
did  the  powers  of  the  sea,  they  wore  gar- 
ments of  ^billowing  green,  bound  about 
them  with  festoons  of  small  shells.  Their 
hair  flowed  free  except  for  fillets  of  shin- 
ing sea-weed. 

Scarcely  had  old  Portunus  reached  his 
place  at  the  foot  of  the  throne  of  British 
oak, — upborne  by  gilded  figures  of  dol- 
phins,— Thalassa  and  Ino  standing  near 
[88] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


and  waving  merrily  to  their  roistering 
friends  on  the  strand, — when  the  dazzling 
apparition  of  Neptune's  car  burst  into 
view  from  behind  the  northern  headland. 
It  was  fashioned  as  an  immense  sea- 
shell,  being  actually  covered  with  a  com- 
plete layer  of  mother-of-pearl,  which 
flashed  all  the  tints  of  the  rainbow  in  the 
low  light  of  the  afternoon  sun.  The  axle 
and  pole  were  of  gold,  and  the  whirling 
spokes  were  of  silver.  The  rim  of  the  car 
was  encrusted  with  huge  opalescent  gems. 
Four  milk-white  stallions  with  Argus 
wings  and  brazen  hoofs  and  gilded  manes 
drew  the  car  at  a  gallop  through  the  ebbed 
sea,  giving  an  almost  perfect  illusion  of 
skimming  the  waves,  under  the  practiced 
rein-hand  of  Gallus. 

•  He  himself  stood  somewhat  uncertainly 
in  his  whirling  car  of  light,  for  which  a 
sandy  road  under  the  water  had  been  care- 
fully freed  from  chance  stones  and  pit- 
falls. Gamboling  around  him  were  the 
hundred  Nereids,  impersonated  by  Brit- 
ish maidens  under  the  lead  of  Galatea  and 
Thetis,  whose  parts  were  taken  by  two 
Roman  ladies  from  the  palace. 
[89] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

In  their  eagerness  the  throngs  on  the 
beach  left  their  booths,  and  stood  uncon- 
sciously laving  their  feet  in  the  lazy  surf, 
shouting  vociferous  applause  for  this  gor- 
geous spectacle,  which  exceeded  in  splen- 
dour anything  they  had  seen  since  leav- 
ing Rome. 

Neptune  reached  the  central  reef  with- 
out mishap.  The  four  shock-haired  Brit- 
ish grooms  who,  habited  as  Tritons,  had 
raced  through  the  sea  beside  the  four  stal- 
lions, now  seized  them  by  the  bit  and  held 
them  as  steady  as  possible  while  Neptune 
dismounted;  then  the  grooms  led  the 
bright  chariot  shoreward,  where  it  became 
the  center  of  sight-seeing  swarms.  When 
the  sun  would  have  set,  Gallus  and  his 
bride  were  to  be  borne  ashore  in  the  arms 
of  their  worshipful  attendants,  and  then 
drive  merrily  homeward  in  their  "car  of 
light"  over  a  specially  prepared  roadway 
to  the  evening  ceremonial  at  the  palace. 

All  was  now  in  readiness  for  the  tribute- 
bearers.  Portunus,  with  reluctant  hospi- 
tality, had  presented  the  Roman  claimant 
with  his  key.  Neptune,  holding  his  great 
[90] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


jeweled  trident  aloft,  was  seated  on  the 
oaken  throne,  at  the  foot  of  which  Por- 
tunus  knelt  in  symbolic  submission.  Over 
the  sea-god's  head  Thalassa  and  Ino  held 
rustling  fronds  of  sea-palm.  All  around 
the  rocky  islet  sat  the  resting  Nereids, 
their  locks  tossing  in  the  gathering  even- 
ing breeze. 

Through  passage-ways  left  clear  on 
either  side  of  the  central  booth  of  Lucius, 
the  British  tribute-bearers  now  defiled. 
There  were  an  even  hundred  of  them,  cor- 
responding to  the  number  of  the  Nereids : 
fifty  each  of  British  boys  and  girls,  the 
boys  bearing  grain  and  fruits,  and  the  girls 
being  laden  with  flowers.  There  were 
gillyflowers  of  all  varieties;  musk-roses, 
and  the  blossoms  of  the  lime-tree ;  honey- 
suckle, columbine,  and  marigold.  Besides 
staple  grains,  the  boys  bore  such  fruits 
as  pears  and  apricots  and  barberries,  with 
musk-melons,  ginitings,  and  quadlins 
There  were  also  plums  of  several  sorts, 
and  baskets  distended  with  filberts.  The 
air  was  fraught  with  a  fragrance  com- 
pounded of  manifold  sweets  as  the  hun- 
[91] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

dred  tribute-bearers  waded  out  to  the  vine- 
crowned  Neptune  and  heaped  this  gar- 
nered bounty  at  his  feet. 

Applause  from  the  jubilant  spectators 
swelled  to  its  loudest  compass  when  Brit- 
annia herself  appeared  in  the  train  of  her 
hundred  heralds.  Erect  as  a  young  oak, 
her  brow  garlanded  with  oak-leaves,  her 
shining  tresses  falling  to  her  supple  waist, 
and  her  beautiful  face  all  aglow  with  a 
new  radiance  well  befitting  this  nuptial 
occasion,  Imogen  elicited  the  zenith  of  ac- 
claim as  her  adoring  heralds  parted  and 
made  way  for  her  to  ascend  from  the  sea 
over  a  carpet  of  flowers  to  the  throne  of 
her  liege  lord  and  master.  This  exquisite 
white-clad  'beauty  suggested  Amphitrite 
herself  as  she  arose  from  the  waters  and 
faced  Neptune. 

The  suggestion  was  not  lost  upon  Gallus. 
Half  intoxicated  as  he  was,  it  so  entranced 
him  that  he  forgot  his  part  and  wholly 
became  his  worst  self.  Amphitrite  should 
marry  Neptune  here  and  now !  He  seized 
Imogen  passionately,  while  the  throngs 
yelled  louder  from  the  shore.  The 
[92] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


struggle  was  but  momentary.  Lithe 
Britannia  slipped  from  Neptune's 
drunken  grasp,  leaped  from  the  seaward 
side  of  the  reef,  and  swam  rapidly  north- 
ward. Gallus  reeled,  too  drunk  to  follow, 
and  the  shouts  from  the  shors  became 
jeers. 

Farther  seaward,  farther  northward, 
swam  Imogen.  Billows  engulfed  her,  but 
the  Romans  on  the  strand  had  no  fear. 
They  knew  her  for  the  sea-nymph  she  was. 
All  of  them  were  laughing  uproariously. 
"What  a  joke  on  Captain  Gallus,  for- 
sooth!" 

He  cut  a  ridiculous  figure  now,  sil- 
houetted against  the  clear  sky,  as  he 
kneeled  a  trifle  groggily  on  the  seat  of  his 
throne,  peering  seaward  under  an  un- 
steady hand;  his  thronewomen  and  Ner- 
eids agape,  while  old  Portunus  dared  to 
smile  openly. 

Farther  northward,  farther  seaward, 
swam  Imogen.  The  waves,  with  the  now 
flowing  tide,  mounted  high  as  she  left  the 
sheltered  cove.  She  disappeared  entirely 
from  view.  Lucius,  angered  by  the 
[93] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

unseemly  behaviour  of  Gallus,  at  length 
became  thoroughly  alarmed.  He  broke 
up  the  pageant  abruptly,  amid  tremendous 
hubbub.  Search  parties  were  sent,  out 
for  the  swimmer,  ashore  and  in  the  sea. 
No  trace  of  her  could  be  found. 

Night  drew  nigh.  Stirred  to  the  stern- 
est depths  of  his  wrath,  Lucius  loaded 
Gallus  with  chains,  and  held  him  against 
the  ransom  of  Imogen.  ...  A  week,  a 
month,  passed  by.  The  Princess  was 
given  up  for  lost,  and  Gallus  sent  back  to 
Rome  a  prisoner,  with  reports  to  his  Im- 
perial master  of  conduct  unbecoming  a 
nobleman  and  officer. 

Imogen  made  her  escape  with  Dun- 
wallo.  When  the  towering  billows  hid  her 
from  Neptune's  throne,  she  veered  south- 
ward. Dunwallo  met  her  far  out  at  sea, 
his  black  head  bobbing  up  and  down.  By 
and  by  her  long  ruddy  locks  streamed 
beside  him  like  a  watery  comet.  In  sheer 
joy  they  shouted  to  the  sea-gulls  scream- 
ing above  them,  and  the  free  British  sky 
overhead.  Then  "they  swam  silently, 
high,  low,  creatures  of  the  smooth  green 
roller.  He  heard  the  water-song  of  her 
[94] 


NEPTUNE'S  FEAST 


swimming."  Hand  lightly  touching  hand 
now  and  then,  they  sped  southward ;  with- 
out haste,  without  rest,  and  unwearied. 
They  swam  in  an  ocean  of  love.  At  last- 
far  too  soon  it  seemed  to  both  of  them — the 
heads  of  the  five  crouching  Druids  ap- 
peared above  the  lower  rocks  of  the  head- 
land, and  Princess  and  peasant  waded  to 
the  shore  hand  in  hand,  through  the  dusk. 
Aged  Coran  the  Scar-faced  wrapped  a 
rough  woollen  cloak  about  Imogen,  and  in 
her  behalf  exorcised  the  forest  demons. 
In  the  presence  of  these  somber  Druids, 
Imogen  and  Dunwallo  alike  felt  darkness 
steal  into  their  hearts.  Dunwallo,  ever  a 
creature  of  moods,  descended  from  heights 
to  the  very  depths.  As  he  reverently 
bade  Imogen  farewell,  a  cold  dread  took 
hold  upon  him,  while  the  old  priest 
watched  them  askance.  Through  fen  and 
moor,  by  waterway  and  gloomy  forest 
paths,  encamped  by  day  and  traveling 
only  at  night,  the  five  Druids  conveyed 
their  royal  charge  to  Myfanwy's  humble 
welcoming  near  Warwick, — while  Dun- 
wallo mingled  gloomily  enough  with  other 
servitors  in  the  palace  court -yard  at  Col- 
chester. 

[95] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 


IV 


SATURNALIA  AND   YULETIDE 

Saturnalia  at  last  drawing  nigh,  Dun- 
wallo  made  ready  as  usual  to  spend  the 
week  at  Warwick.  During  the  festival 
sacred  to  slaves,  Lucius  had  always  al- 
lowed his  harper  this  boon.  Heavy- 
hearted,  he  took  up  his  journey;  he  did  not 
expect  to  see  Imogen.  Druid  as  he  was  by 
life-long  association  and  training,  and  im- 
bued with  the  dogma  of  his  curse,  the  lone- 
liness of  life  at  the  palace, — bereft  for  the 
first  time  of  Imogen, — had  induced  such  a 
mood  of  depression  that  he  deemed  him- 
self a  sacrilegious  criminal.  The  blackest 
melancholy  that  this  young  bardic  Hamlet 
had  ever  known  succeeded  the  momentary 
dazzlement  of  love.  His  Princess — how 
had  he  ever  dared  love  her?  One  thought 
alone  brought  him  comfort:  through  his 
aid  she  had  escaped  drunken  Gallus.  On 
[99] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

the  other  hand,  had  she  not  lost  the  lov- 
ing luxuries  of  Lucius,  did  she  not  drink 
the  bitter  dregs  of  poverty?  His  super- 
stitions caused  him  to  fear  that  by  the 
curses  resting  on  himself  he  may  have 
brought  curses  on  her.  Who  knew  but 
old  Goran  was  right?  How  could  the 
gods  bestow  favours  so  long  as  they  were 
cheated  of  their  due? 

With  such  thoughts  grinding  in  his 
brain,  Dunwallo  trudged  through  the  for- 
est paths  to  Warwick,  not  aglow  with  the 
glory  of  the  lover,  but  oppressed  with  the 
curses  of  the  doomed.  'No  doubt  the 
ghastly  sickliness  of  that  long  remembered 
winter  fed  the  fevered  vapours  of  his 
mind. 

Saturnalia  spelt  respite  from  serfdom. 
Reminiscent  of  the  vanished  age  of  Saturn 
and  prophetic  of  a  golden  age  to  come, 
this  gay  carnival  softened  for  a  week  of 
every  twelvemonth  the  arrogant  lordi- 
ness  of  Rome.  In  the  Imperial  City  it- 
self, where  freedmen  were  accustomed  to 
dedicate  their  cast-off  manacles  to  Saturn 
as  divine  author  of  liberty,  all  fetters  were 
[100] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YU] 


removed  from  his  statues,  so  that  no  sign 
of  slavery  should  appear.  Thus  for  one 
brief  week  the  masters  of  all  the  world 
played  make-believe  of  universal  liberty, 
roistering  at  their  feasts  with  unbound 
slaves.  Even  the  stern  rulers  of  colonies 
turned  the  tables  of  customary  behaviour, 
seating  the  slaves  at  festal  boards  and  rol- 
licking as  servitors  themselves  —  the  formal 
toga  replaced  by  the  loose  synthesis,  after 
which  the  domino  of  modern  carnivals  is 
patterned,  and  the  close-fitting  cap,  then 
called  pilleus,  now  known  as  the  liberty- 
cap,  crowning  every  head  as  a  symbol  of 
universal  manumission.  At  this  high  car- 
nival of  the  winter  solstice  —  lasting  from 
the  seventeenth  to  the  twenty-fourth  of 
December  inclusive  —  tiny  wax  tapers 
were  everywhere  exchanged  as  lightsome 
gifts,  with  dolls  made  of  pastry  and  clay. 
Everywhere  also  the  wintry  air  resounded 
with  the  merry-making  shout,  fflo  Satur- 
nalia!" 

By  the  time  Dunwallo  reached  War- 
wick, half-starved  in  that  famine-cursed 
winter,  his  gloomy  thoughts  had  become 
[101] 


THE  TREE'  OF  LIGHT 

an  obsession.  More  than  once  it  came 
into  his  mind  that  he  should  heed  the 
veiled  dogmas  of  Goran,  and  avert  fur- 
ther woes  from  his  people — especially 
from  the  radiant  Princess  Imogen — by 
propitiating  the  cheated  Taranis.  That 
meant  his  death.  He  avoided  Myfanwy 
and  Imogen,  with  whom  it  would  have 
fared  ill  that  winter  but  for  the  constant 
aid  of  the  five  Druids.  The  two  women 
were  not  only  provided  with  food,  but  the 
medicinal  skill  of  old  Coran  warded  off  the 
menace  of  the  plague.  By  these  devoted 
guardians,  moreover,  the  presence  of  the 
Princess  in  Warwickshire  was  jealously 
concealed.  Not  a  soul  knew  of  it  but 
themselves,  with  Dunwallo  and  the  white- 
haired  Myfanwy. 

On  reaching  Warwick  toward  the  end 
of  Saturnalia  week,  Dunwallo  had  com- 
panioned with  the  Druids.  Morose  and 
silent,  they  barely  greeted  him,  and  said 
not  a  word  of  their  charges.  From  their 
stealthy  visits  to  his  mother's  hut,  loaded 
with  the  food  for  which  they  foraged,  he 
guessed  that  his  mother  and  Imogen  were 
alive  and  well. 

[102] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

It  was  Yuletide  eve.  The  Druids  were 
encamped  for  their  rites  under  the  Tree 
of  Caradoc,  where,  licensed  by  Saturnalia 
freedom,  they  sat  around  a  glowing  log 
of  oak. 

The  forest  had  been  cleared  between 
this  hill-top  and  the  ancient  British  vil- 
lage, and  now  a  strong  Roman  settlement 
marked  the  site  of  the  Warwick  of  later 
days.  The  Romans,  always  keen  judges 
of  locality,  had  endorsed  the  judgment 
of  Caradoc,  and  posterity  continues  to 
praise  it. 

"Under  this  hill,  hard  by  the  river 
Avon,"  as  one  quaint  chronicler  has 
phrased  it,  "is  the  very  seate  itself e  of 
pleasantnesse.  There  have  yee  a  shady 
little  wood,  cleere  and  cristall  springs, 
mossy  bottomes  and  caves,  meadowes  al- 
waies  fresh  and  greene,  the  river  rumbling 
here  and  there  among  the  stones,  with  his 
stream  making  a  milde  noise  and  gentle 
whispering,  and  besides  all  this,  solitary 
and  still  quietnesse,  things  most  grateful 
to  the  Muses." 

The  muse  of  William  Shakspeare  was 
[103] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

surely  partial  to  his  native  Warwickshire, 

"With   shadowy   forests   and  with   champains 

rich'd. 
With      plenteous      rivers      and     wide-skirted 

meads." 

The  Romans  of  Caradoc's  time  have 
been  charged  with  decadent  taste  in  many 
points,  but  Warwick  must  be*  cited  in 
their  favour. .  .  . 

On  this  last  night  of  Saturnalia  week, 
as  Yule  day  drew  toward  its  dawn,  Dun- 
wallo  sat  with  his  five  Druid  companions, 
beneath  the  stark  branches  of  Caradoc's 
Oak,  attendant  on  the  coming  of  the  sun. 
His  harp  gleamed  in  the  Yule-log  glow. 
He  plucked  moodily  at  its  strings  in  prep- 
aration for  that  weird  Hymn  to  the  Dawn 
in  which  it  was  now  become  his  lot  to  lead 
the  Druids. 

When  men's  nerves  are  strained  to  the 
breaking-point,  even  a  twanging  harp  may 
make  them  snap. 

"Curses  on  thee!"  suddenly  muttered 
Coran.  "Cease  the  idle  twanging  of  that 
harp !  The  gods  must  not  be  waked  be- 
fore the  dawning!  Curses,  double  curses, 
come  upon  thee!" 

[104] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

"Peace,  Coran,"  softly  answered  the 
startled  Dunwallo.  "Curses  come  home 
to  roost,  the  saying  goes,  and  our  curse  is 
heavy  already." 

The  scar-faced  priest  sat  rigidly  up- 
right as-  though  he  had  springs  in  his 
backbone.  His  pale  eyes  flashed  with  life 
once  more,  and  the  seam  on  his  face 
seemed  to  deepen.  The  fanatical  devil 
dwelling  in  his  breast  shook  his  voice  to 
a  cataract  of  utterance. 

"Ay,  well  thou  hast  said,  thou  Dun- 
wallo, that  curses  come  back  home  to  roost ! 
Well  hast  thou  said  that  our  curses  are 
heavy  to  bear!  To  come  from  thy  lips  of 
all  men!  Came  not  our  curse  out  of 
thee?" 

This  question  he  screamed  with  such 
shrillness  that  Dunwallo  looked  alarmedly 
about;  and  then,  smiling  sadly,  replied: 

"Softly,  softly,  testy  Coran,  or  the 
Romans  may  bring  us  Yuletide  with  a 
vengeance!" 

"Yuletide,  indeed!"  shouted  Coran,  the 
four  others  listening  intently  to  what  gave 
promise  of  becoming  a  broil. 

"Ay,  the  Yule!"  cried  the  bitter  old 
[105] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

priest  of  former  days,  with  strident  inten- 
sity of  passion,  leaning  forward  with 
skinny  elbows  on  his  knees,  his  eyes  now 
glowing  like  coals : 

"Knowest  thou  not  'tis  the  hour  of  the 
Yule  Wheel? — that  the  angered  Wheel- 
God  of  heaven  is  turning  him  now  in  his 
courses? — and,  if  he  be  not  appeased  in 
his  wrath,  he  will  burn  us  to  hell  with  his 
curses?  This  week  the  Sun  wheels  in  his 
circuit ;  woe  be  to  us  if  we  spit  toward  the 
Yule!" 

The  four  companions  sat  with  their 
chins  in  their  palms,  weary  and  worn  with 
sore  toil,  despondent  from  oppression  and 
from  exposure  in  this  strangest  of  all 
British  winters,  but  listening  with  eager 
intentness  to  the  spokesman  of  altarless 
gods. 

"Who  would  spit  toward  the  Yule, 
Father  Coran?" 

The  old  man  held  back  his  reply;  peer- 
ing deep  into  the  youth's  melancholy  but 
entirely  fearless  eyes,  his  face  twitching 
with  unearthly  excitement,  his  scar  throb- 
bing like  something  alive. 

When  the  answer  was  finally  moulded, 
[106] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

it  fell  slow  from  his  thin  writhing  lips, 
each  word  with  a  sting  as  of  an  asp,  im- 
pelled by  the  malignant  ferocity  which  re- 
ligious bigotry  draws  to  its  prime. 

"Accursed  of  the  gods!"  he  hissed. 
"Spawn  of  leprous  sire  and  lying  dam! 
Robber  of  the  altar,  cheater  of  the  sacri- 
fice, it  is  thou  that  spittest  at  the  Yule! 
Seest  thou  not  that  thy  living  is  a  daily  in- 
sult to  deity?  Knowest  thou  not  that  thy 
life's  blood  is  forfeit  to  hungry  Taranis? 
Well  do  I  remember  that  damnable  May 
day  noontide,  when  Dalian  called  ven- 
geance from  the  skies !  The  smell  of  sac- 
rificial fire  still  clung  to  thy  swaddling- 
band  when  the  courier  fell  from  his  frothy 
horse  and  proclaimed,  like  some  herald 
from  hell,  the  coming  of  Jupiter's  scourge! 
The  beak  of  the  eagles  of  Rome  hath 
rended  the  hearts  of  our  people  because 
all  the  Druid  gods  of  heaven  wreak  re- 
venge for  the  cheating  of  Taranis!  Thy 
hag  mother  frothed  in  her  frenzy  and  left 
me  these  anklets  for  keepsake,  as  thy  fa- 
ther had  marked  me  this  scar!  I  spare 
her  life  now  and  feed  her  because  she 
[107] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

shelters  our  Princess !  Thine  own  life  was 
forfeit,  I  tell  thee;  the  mad  King  raped 
it  from  the  Oak-God's  jaws!  In  ex- 
change for  thy  puling  infant's  drachm  of 
blood,  the  blood  of  our  oak-hearted  man- 
hood has  deluged  Britain  with  red  floods 
of  fury  even  from  that  day  to  this !  War, 
war,  war!  Toil  and  pain,  toil  and  pain, 
toil  and  trouble !  Bloody  curses,  stinking 
woes,  and  filthy  serfdom — that  hast  thou 
brought  to  our  bosoms!  Thou  art  the 
hell-born  incubus  of  Britain,  the  father 
of  fiendish  woes!  Even  the  clouds  and 
the  seasons  retch  at  thee !  Why  this  reek- 
ing moisture  of  midwinter?  Why  these 
steaming  months  of  lukewarm  fog? 
Why  this  baleful  threat  of  deadly  plague  ? 
Why  do  the  worms  rot  the  trees,  and  the 
weevils  plague  the  corn,  and  the  mole-rats 
pollute  the  brook-bed,  except  for  thee? 
Wherefore  should  the  snow  stick  in  the 
sky,  save  for  shuddering  fear  of  thee? 
'Land  of  the  wintry  pole,'  indeed!  Why 
should  the  oily  rivers  creep  unpurified  of 
ice  in  their  slimy  serpentine  beds  except 
that  the  cold  gods  of  purity  disdain  thee? 
[108] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

They  are  all  in  league  with  Taranis ;  never 
hath  such  a  winter's  season  come  to  Brit- 
ain, never  land  groaned  under  heavier 
woe!  Thou  clingest  to  thy  whelp's  life  as 
a  leech — yea,  leech  thou  art  to  Britain's 
sucked-up  heart,  devourer  of  thy  land 
and  thy  people!  Here  under  this  Oak- 
Tree  came  the  awful  curse  on  us  from 
thee;  when  thou  payest  here  under  this 
Tree  thy  debt  to  the  cheated  Taranis, 
then,  and  not  till  then,  will  Britain  be 
freed  from  her  curses!  I  swear  it  by  the 
Egg-of- the- Serpents,  which  I  tore  from 
the  dead  hand  of  Dalian!" — and,  wrench- 
ing the  sacrosanct  charm  from  its  long 
hiding-place  in  his  girdle,  he  thrust  it  with 
violence  against  Dunwallo's  wildly  beat- 
ing heart. 

The  aged  man  leaned  back  exhausted, 
his  breast  heaving  with  its  torrent  of  de- 
lirium. The  fetid  breath  of  that  dense 
winter  in  Britain  turned  more  than  one 
man  toward  madness.  This  half  mad  and 
wholly  fanatical  priest  had  not  escaped  the 
sword  of  Suetonius  for  naught.  With 
such  seed-corn  of  fierce  Druidism  existent, 
[109] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

that  intense  barbaric  faith  might  again 
find  full  field  in  Britain. 

Goran's  hearers  were  visibly  affected. 
The  four  Druids  muttered  together,  steal- 
ing murderous  looks  toward  Dunwallo. 
He,  poor  youth,  was  affected  most  pro- 
foundly of  all.  The  full  watery  moon 
showed  his  face  as  pallid  as  a  ghost's, 
his  great  eyes  staring  into  vacancy.  Pres- 
ently he  spoke. 

It  was  the  fruit  of  much  melancholy 
brooding,  fertilized  by  the  sick  ghastli- 
ness  of  the  season,  and  ripened  suddenly 
by  the  blaze  of  Goran's  wrath.  In  Dun- 
wallo spoke  the  voice  of  a  martyr,  unre- 
membered  now,  yet  worthy  of  a  place  be- 
side those  who  later  died  in  the  highway  at 
Oxford.  His  voice  was  low  but  steady; 
his  face  had  the  grandeur  of  a  god. 

"Father  Goran,  it  comes  to  me  that  thou 
art  right.  And  I  am  ready  to  pay  the 
forfeit  for  my  people." 

The  old  priest  leaped  to  his  feet  with 
the  agility  of  a  cat ;  the  four  other  Druids 
lumbered  clumsily  to  theirs.  Dunwallo 
remained  seated. 

[110] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

"Say  it  again!"  screamed  the  unfrocked 
priest — "Say  what  mine  ears  have 
seemed  to  tell  me!" 

"I  say  it,"  answered  Dunwallo.  "Here 
and  now  will  I  pay  forfeit  for  my  people!" 

One  of  the  men  said,  hollowly : 

"Dunwallo,  well  spoken !  It  is  due  that 
thou  shouldst  die  and  save  the  people. 
Thy  life  is  truly  forfeit  to  the  gods." 

In  this  they  all  gloomily  concurred. 

Coran  sealed  him  with  the  deadly  An- 
guineum.  They  bound  him  with  their 
leathern  girdles  to  the  Tree,  his-  arms  out- 
stretched so  that  his  body  formed  the  fig- 
ure of  a  cross.  They  discussed  the  place 
where  they  might  sink  his  corpse  in  the 
Avon,  and  escape  the  detection  of  the 
Romans.  Coran  was  feverish  with  excite- 
ment, while  Dunwallo,  his  eyes  closed,  re- 
mained to  all  appearance  divinely  calm. 
The  five  Druids  finally  stood  out  before 
lim  in  the  moonlight — Coran  in  the  center, 
chanting  the  blood-curdling  Death  Song, 
his  golden  knife  gleaming  toward  Dun- 
wallo's  throat.  But  listen! 

A  voice  of  singular  sweetness  and  per- 
suasion interrupted  the  unholy  dirge. 

[in] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

"My  children!" 

Coran  wheeled  around  like  a  dervish, 
recognized  by  some  strange  intuition  the 
figure  of  Caradoc  standing  there  alone  in 
the  moonlight,  and  raised  his  murderous 
knife  frenziedly  upon  the  King. 

But  the  weapon  fell  harmless  from  his 
hand  as  he  huddled  in  a  faint  upon  the 
ground.  The  four  men  fell  back  aghast. 

Caradoc  stooped,  and  with  infinite  ten- 
derness ministered  to  the  unconscious 
priest.  When  the  sick  man  revived,  Cara- 
doc bade  one  of  the  Druids  support  him, 
then  hastened  to  unbind  Dunwallo. 
When  each  knew  who  the  other  was,  they 
embraced  and  wept. 

Suddenly  Dunwallo  tore  himself  from 
his  ransomer's  arms  and  fled  like  a  deer 
toward  the  village.  Imogen's  father  had 
come!  The  King,  the  Great  King,  had 
come  home! 

Caradoc  stooped  once  more  over  the 
prostrate  form  of  the  priest,  whose 
strength  seemed  utterly  spent ;  and,  laying 
the  gaunt  head  with  its  horrible  throbbing 
scar  upon  his  knee,  he  bade  the  others, 
[112] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

filled  with  silent  awe-struck  wonderment 
as  they  were,  to  summon  all  the  slumber- 
ing peasants  within  call. 

His  request  fairly  electrified  their  feet. 

"The  children!  Especially  the  chil- 
dren!" Caradoc  cried  after  them. 

"Come!"  he  called  to  his  two  Roman  ser- 
vants, who  at  his  bidding  had  remained 
unseen  in  the  background.  They  came 
forward  bearing  bundles  of  gifts. 

Goran  showed  signs  of  reviving 
strength.  Pillowing  the  old  priest's  head 
on  wrappings  from  one  of  the  bundles, 
Caradoc  arose  to  complete  his  prepara- 
tions for  the  first  British  Christmas. 

But  he  stood  still,  stricken  with  joy. 

"Eigen!"  he  shouted,  in  a  voice  loud 
with  wonder  and  gladness. 

It  was  not  Eigen,  it  was  Imogen,  stand- 
ing in  the  rim  of  the  Yuletide  fire,  clasp- 
ing Dunwallo's  hand. 

With  a  cry  she  sprang  into  her  father's 
arms. 

"It  is  Imogen!"  she  sobbed,  on  his 
breast. 

Kissing  her  happy  tears  away,  the 
[113] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

Christmas  King  held  her  at  arm's  length 
to  enjoy  her  wonderful  beauty. 

"Blessed  Day-Star,  I  had  thought  thou 
wert  Eigen !"  he  said,  tremulously.  "Thou 
art  as  she  was  when  first  I  beheld  her — 
O  radiant  Imogen!" 

Once  more  she  nestled  her  head  upon  his 
heart. 

"I  had  thought  that  He  who  had 
brought  life  and  immortality  to  light  had 
given  back  to  me  thy  mother  in  her  youth," 
he  went  on,  reverently.  "That  might  not 
be.  But  indeed  thou  hast  come  back  from 
the  grave  of  lost  hopes,  O  radiant  Imogen, 
to  renew  my  own  youth  within  me!" 

In  the  firelignt  the  King's  face  shone 
with  joy. 

Dunwallo  would  fain  have  checked  his 
mother,  the  white-haired  Myfanwy,  who 
had  followed  the  two  up  the  hill  from  the 
hut;  but  she  rushed  past  him,  throwing 
herself  prone  on  the  ground  and  kissing 
Caradoc's  feet. 

His  voice  was  infinitely  tender. 

"Rise,  O  Myfanwy,  I  have  somewhat  to 
telltheeP 

[114] 


'JHe  told  them  the  story  of  the   manger" 

From  a  drawing-  by   Frank  Craig- 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

By  this  time  the  huddling  villagers  were 
collecting  in  a  great  wonder-struck  ring 
about  Caradoc's  Oak,  bringing  with  them 
hordes  of  smudge-faced  children,  clad  in 
ragged  smocks  and  untanned  wolf -skins. 
The  summoners,  now  breathlessly  return- 
ing themselves,  had  stirred  every  neigh- 
bouring household  with  the  message: 

"The  King  has  come  back!  Bring  the 
children  to  Caradoc's  Oak — and  hasten!" 

Purifying  snow  had  begun  to  fall.  This 
brought  added  joy  to  these  poor  people, 
affrighted  as  they  were  of  the  plague. 

"Sit  ye  about  me  on  the  ground," 
commanded  Caradoc,  seating  himself  on 
an  unsacrificed  Yule  log,  close  up  against 
the  trunk  of  the  Oak.  Imogen  nestled  in 
his  right  arm's  embrace. 

"I  have  come  back  to  you  at  the  Yule- 
tide  at  the  cost  of  my  kingly  crown.  My 
freedom  I  purchased,  my  children,  to  lead 
you  to  serve  the  Prince  of  Peace." 

"The  Prince  of  Peace!  What  a  name!" 
muttered  the  fierce  old  priest  of  Taranis, 
gazing  wide-eyed  into  Caradoc's  face. 

"Yes,  my  children,"  continued  the  great 
Nursing-Father.     "He     purchased     the 
[117] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

peace  of  his  people  by  the  forfeit  of  hL 
life  upon  the  Tree." 

Dunwallo  shifted  to  a  kneeling  posture, 
his  hands  clasped  as  in  prayer.  Coran 
would  have  struggled  to  his  feet,  but  a 
gesture  from  Caradoc  restrained  him. 

"Why!"  exclaimed  the  old  Druid,  "we 
were  about  to  claim  the  forfeit  of  Dun- 
wallo!"— and  when  Caradoc  had  heard  the 
story  of  the  young  man's  voluntary  sacri- 
fice, he  looked  on  him  and  loved  him,  and 
told  them  the  story  of  the  Cross. 

"I  had  thought  it  was  only  the  fondness 
of  memory  that  lured  me  by  way  of  the 
Oak.  I  longed  to  stand.under  this  Tree, 
where  I  parted  with  the  glory  of  the  past. 
Now  I  know  I  was  sent  here.  I  was  sent 
to  the  Oak  as  your  Daysman,  to  set  you 
at  one  with  Immanuel,  and  to  turn  your 
somber  Yuletide  into  Christmas." 

"Christmas — what  is  Christmas?"  mur- 
mured Dunwallo. 

"Christmas  is  redeemed  childhood,"  an- 
swered Caradoc.  "It  was-  the  unknown 
touch  of  Christmas  in  my  heart  that  set 
you  free  from  Taranis  a  score  of  years 
[118] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

ago" — and  he  told  them  the  story  of  the 
Manger. 

"Christmas  is  redeemed  motherhood," 
the  gentle  evangelist  went  on,  smiling  to- 
ward the  white-haired  Myfanwy,  whose 
very  soul  was  shining  in  her  eyes ;  and  he 
pictured  to  their  minds  the  Virgin  Mother. 

"Christmas  is  a  redeemed  world,"  the 
King  continued,  and  his  voice  rang  out  to 
the  outermost  ring  of  the  people  surround- 
ing the  Oak.  "Chiefly  it  is  the  redemption 
of  our  joy."  He  kissed  Imogen  with 
great  tenderness  upon  her  brow.  "It 
turns  our  age  to  youth  again,  our  ugliness 
to  beauty,  and  all  our  outward  sorrows  to 
an  innermost  delight.  It  takes  the  whole 
wide  world  and  makes  it  new  again,  with 
a  gift  like  the  ministry  of  snow.  There 
was  that  in  your  old  religion,  faithful  Cor- 
an,  which  it  will  possess  and  transform.  A 
Father  takes  the  place  of  Taranis,  and 
Christ  shall  become  your  Druid.  There 
is  never  a  truth  or  beauty  in  the  world  but 
Christmas  will  welcome  them  and  mould 
them  to  itself  with  fragrant  freshness.  So 
the  coming  centuries  will  cherish  the  sac- 
rament of  sacrifice,  though  Christmas  al- 
[119] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

tars  never  feel  the  stain  of  blood.  Even 
your  Oak" — and  he  waved  his  hand  up- 
ward— "will  surrender  his  sacred  Ail- 
Heal,  and  the  Yule  log  will  burn  on  the 
hearthstone,  and  the  greenery  of  forest 
gods  shall  wave, — not  as  signs  of  dark  and 
helpless  fear,  but  to  bid  the  new-born 
world  a  merry  Christmas!" 

And  he  told  them  how  the  trembling 
shepherds  heard  the  first  Christmas  words, 
"Fear  not!" 

"Imogen!"  he  suddenly  cried,  buoyantly 
leaping  to  his  feet  with  the  lithe  spring  of 
youth — "Come!  the  children!" 

It  was  high  dawn,.  The  maiden  caught 
the  spirit  of  Christmas  as  Caradoc  pointed 
to  the  open  bundles  of  Saturnalian  toys, 
and  then  toward  the  nestling  groups  of 
children. 

But  he  looked  up  at  the  bare  cheerless 
boughs  of  the  Oak  and  shook  his  head.  In 
the  growing  light  he  could  see  its  charred 
trunk,  blackened  by  a  second  and  a  third 
stroke  of  lightning,  and  blacker  now  than 
ever  against  a  background  of  softly  falling 
snow.  He  shook  his  head,  smiling. 

Imogen  smiled  back  at  him. 
[120] 


"The  first   Christmas  tree" 
From  a  photograph  by  Isabel  Mosher 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

"Not  here!"  she  said.  "Let  us  go  out 
into  the  dawn!" 

So  they  came  out  from  under  the  Oak, 
Dunwallo  aiding  the  Roman  servants  with 
the  bundles  of  toys,  and  the  Druids  stir- 
ring fresh  Yule  logs  into  a  towering  flame, 
merrily  crackling. 

The  people  pressed  back  but  little. 
Sobs  of  joy  were  heard  on  every  side,  and 
many  stooped  to  kiss  the  hem  of  the  King's 
simple  garment.  Children  so  clung  about 
his  knees  that  as  he  moved  they  moved 
forward  with  him. 

"See!"  cried  the  radiant  Imogen,  joy- 
fully dancing,  her  eyes  agleam  with  some 
fresh  thought  of  delight,  her  cheeks  dimp- 
ling in  the  Yule  log's  merry  glow,  as  she 
pointed  to  a  slenderly  graceful  young  fir- 
tree,  sparkling  with  SETOW  crystals  as  with 
unnumbered  jewels — "Let  us  festoon  the 
children's  gifts  among  its  houghs!" 

Dunwallo  exchanged  a  swift  glance  of 
understanding  with  Imogen.  He  felt  as 
if  his  pall  of  gloom  had  dropped  from  him, 
nevermore  to  return.  They  were  think- 
ing of  the  fir-trees  at  Colchester  through 
[123] 


THE  TREE  OF  LIGHT 

whose  boughs  they  had  heard  the  Gift  of 
Music. 

Caradoc  noted  the  unmistakable  glances 
of  youth  in  love,  and  smiled  with  a  wise 
new  tenderness.  So  he  and  Imogen  and 
Dunwallo  and  even  old  Goran  hung  the 
Saturnalian  toys  among  the  boughs  of  the 
fir-tree,  to  the  merry  laughter  of  rollick- 
ing children,  amid  shouts  of  delight  from 
their  elders. 

"Father!" 

It  was  the  first  time  Imogen  had  spoken 
the  beautiful  word.  Her  hands  clasped 
behind  Caradoc's  neck,  she  looked  up  into 
his  smiling  eyes  with  unutterable  radiance. 

"I  love  Dunwallo!" 

Caradoc  kissed  her  gently  on  the  lips. 

"Clip  me  the  Golden  Bough,  the  Mis- 
tletoe !"  he  cried  to  old  Coran.  This  hoary 
mystical  plant  should  bespeak  a  new  free- 
dom, a  more  abundant  life,  alike  to 
Princess  and  peasant. 

With  trembling  limbs,  assisted  by  the 
four  eager  Druids,  the  breathless  priest 
climbed  to  the  lowest  bough  of  the  black- 
ened Oak,  and  cut  with  Dalian's  golden 
knife  the  only  living  thing  upon  the  tree. 
[124] 


SATURNALIA  AND  YULETIDE 

Meanwhile  Dunwallo,  as  if  in  a  trance, 
had  stepped  slowly  forward  at  the  sum- 
mons of  Caradoc,  who  laid  Imogen's  right 
hand  within  his. 

"  *  There  is  neither  bond  nor  free,'  "  the 
Christian  King  murmured,  "  'but  ye  are 
one!'" 

Dunwallo  and  Imogen  were  standing  in 
front  of  the  fir-tree,  and  as  Goran  came 
running  with  the  mistletoe  bough,  Caradoc 
waved  it  above  their  heads. 

"Liberty — love — life,"  were  three  words 
he  uttered  as  if  in  benediction.  Dunwal- 
lo and  Imogen  plighted  their  troth  with  a 
kiss.  The  sun  suddenly  shot  up  over  the 
boundless  forests  to  eastward,  precisely  as 
on  the  dawn  of  that  far-away  May  day 
morning,  and  lit  up  the  world  with  strange 
splendour. 

"Father!"  cried  Imogen,  rapturously 
pointing  toward  the  dazzling  little  fir-tree, 
surrounded  by  dancing  children;  ever- 
green with  fresh  life,  as  free  as  it  was  fresh, 
and  to  her  heart  fragrant  with  love, — 

"It  is  the  Tree  of  Light!" 

THE  END 

[125] 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
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LD  21-95m-ll,'50(2877sl6)476 


ID     O  /  I 


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